


A Little Night Music

by badskippy



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Classical Music, Falling In Love, M/M, Secret Identity, high blood sugar warning from all the sweetness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-19 00:52:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4726637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/pseuds/badskippy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin has struggled so long and hard to find his place, but he won't abandon his music.  Bilbo must struggle and find his place, alone now, in this world.</p><p>Then one night, when both of them thought themselves so abandoned and alone ... there came music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meg_Thilbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meg_Thilbo/gifts), [beetle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/gifts), [Neeka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neeka/gifts).



> This was inspired by a Tumblr post by Meg_Thilbo (which for some reason, I can't seem to get the URL to work for.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PRELUDE - an introductory piece of music, most commonly an orchestral opening to an act of an opera, the first movement of a suite, or a piece preceding a fugue.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Every story, every poem, every piece of music, has a beginning ... this is the beginning of Thorin and Bilbo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested - i have a playlist on youtube for this fic. All the music featured can be found there, in order that it appears in the story.
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> [A Little Night Music - The Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCKG5XrZeT8&list=PLmqVIBoWmjW7KlpvXYeulsy55tCkFVI_b)  
> 

* * *

 

 

            His grandfather’s voice echoed in his memory, loud and clear.

            _“It’ll never amount to a thing!”_

            It was infuriating, but even more so because it was becoming true.

            _“You don’t know that father.”_

            His dad’s voice, defending him, countered his grandfather's, had always been a balm but it was a hollow sentiment at the moment.  Especially when he remembered that his dad always followed-up his defense, privately, with, _“You should have a backup plan, son.  You know I think you are very talented, but music doesn’t pay your bills.”_

            Yeah. He got that now.

            Thorin sat in his quickly darkening living room, slumped in a chair, still holding onto the latest rejection letter.  He had been so hopeful this time. 

           He had had three auditions in total.   The first two, one with the Conductor and the other with the Concertmaster, were fantastic; he seemed a shoe-in as both had praised his talent as well as his choice of pieces he played.  Then word came down from the front office that the Chief Executive wanted a third audition; seemed as if he doubted everyone else.  It was unusual, no one else in the symphony had been required to sit for a private audition for the chief and four senior executives of the hall. When he entered the room, the four seniors were already seated, two on either side of a large, empty chair.  He set up and just as he was ready, in walked the Chief. 

            He should have known.

            Thranduil.

            He knew right then and there, that it didn’t matter what he played or how well he played, he wasn’t going to be offered the position. He had already failed when he hadn’t even been given the chance.  Oh, he did play his best; a full-on performance, probably the best he ever gave. But none of the executives said a word, moved a muscle, made a sound, they didn’t even thank him for coming, just when it was over, they all stood up and left the room.  The conductor had been there and he was kind but clearly confused, said he would be in contact.

            Thorin already knew what kind of contact it would be.

            Sure enough, two days later, the letter arrived. 

           

_We thank you for your efforts and while your performance was technically superb, we do not feel that at this time we have a suitable place for you among our excellent and superior musicians._

 

            Blah, blah, blah.  It was all smoke and mirrors; nothing but lies.  Thranduil still held a grudge and had made sure that, regardless of talent, there would be no place for Thorin ‘Oakenshield’ Durin in any symphony, orchestra or group that played at _‘his’_ hall.

            A personal note had accompanied the letter from the conductor who apologized and urged Thorin to please, please, please continue to audition in the future. Maybe something would come up again.

            Unlikely.

            By now, with the sunset, the living room was blanketed in darkness. Thorin got up, opened a window, letting in a gentle breeze and fresh air, and switched-on the small table light next to the window. He sat down at his harp, took a deep breath and, without thought, began to play.

           

\-----ooooo-----

 

           

            Bilbo unlocked the door to his flat; not seeing the key in his hand or the door as he opened and then closed it behind him.  All his movements had become automatic at this point.

            He was tired, exhausted, his mind blank; it was just too much to process. He could take no more in.

            It had all been so quick.  Not two weeks ago, he'd gone home for a quick visit and had sat at his mother’s kitchen table, laughing with her as she retold the ridiculous antics of his extended family. Two days after his return he'd gotten a call from his grandfather, his mother’s father, that he had to come back right away, there'd been a terrible accident.  Rush he did and on arrival, was witness to the barely living woman that had been his mother, struck down violently and suddenly on side of the road by a drunk driver, as she passed from his life.

            Now, back home in London, the funeral over, his mother buried beside his father, his grandfather, already so frail, broken over the loss of his favorite daughter, Bilbo had become numb to everything; even his own soul it seemed.

            _“Please stay, Bilbo.”_ Grandpa had begged him; begged him, mind you.

            _“I can’t.”_ It had been true on many levels; work, grief, fear, weakness.  Bilbo just couldn't bring himself to stay.

            _“Will you at least come back, sometime?”_

            Bilbo hadn’t really answered, just nodded.  He wasn’t sure he could ever go back to Hobbiton again, let alone go home and enter Bag End; empty and devoid of the life and warmth that had been Belladonna Baggins.

            His flat was stuffy having been shut up for so many days, so he opened a window and took a deep breath of the cool, night air.

            That’s when the tears came. He collapsed in his chair, it has been his father’s, and let the tears run down his face; he didn’t care.

            He was alone; so very alone.  And it felt like he would never be warm again.

            Until he heard music.

            Someone was playing the harp and it sounded like maybe they too were hurting.

            The piece was _‘[Liebestraume’ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bExXcpasTIk)_ by Liszt.  It was so soft and lovely. It seemed to not only touch the feelings within him but also to pull those emotions out of him; he felt such relief that his heart reached for what little hope the song promised.

            He closed his eyes and let the notes wash over him.

            He cried still but he felt that he wasn’t so alone anymore.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 


	2. Rhapsody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RHAPSODY - an effusively enthusiastic or ecstatic expression of feeling.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin and Bilbo are both desperate ... Thorin just doesn't realize that Bilbo is desperate over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested - i have a playlist on youtube for this fic. All the music featured can be found there, in order that it appears in the story.
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> [A Little Night Music - The Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCKG5XrZeT8&list=PLmqVIBoWmjW7KlpvXYeulsy55tCkFVI_b)  
> 

* * *

  

            Thorin knew there was nothing for it. Besides, it wasn’t like he could’ve refused, even if he wanted to and now, staring at the large, ornate knocker on his grandparent’s front door, it was far too late to do a runner.  Taking a deep breath, he raised his hand, grabbed the cold metal and allowed the resounding echo of the knocker announce his presence.  He knew he didn’t really have to knock but for what he was about to do, he felt he had to appear as contrite as he felt.

            “Darling!” His grandmother, Veda, greeted him warmly as soon as she opened the door and pulled him down to her in a surprisingly strong hug for such a tiny woman.

            “Hello, Gran,” Thorin returned the hug gladly; he adored the woman.

            “Come in, come in,” she fussed, smiling, pulling Thorin inside. “How did that audition go a few weeks ago?”

            _Shit._ Thorin hadn’t told them a thing about it; still stung at the rejection.  “It went well … however, they, uhm … decided to, uhm … go with someone else. Someone with more … experience.” _Someone that didn’t have a poisoned history with the Chief Executive,_ but Thorin left that bit out.

            “How disappointing,” Veda said, visibly upset for Thorin. “You worked so hard for that audition!”

            Thorin shrugged and plastered a smile on his face.  “That’s that nature of the business, I’m afraid.”

            Veda huffed out a sigh.  “Someday, the perfect opportunity will come along.”  She smiled up at him.  “Don’t give up hope.”

            _Too late._ Thorin returned her smile. He had been thinking that maybe it was time to travel, or move; Europe or America.  But then again, on the continent, the competition was even worse, and in America, they seem to have forgotten what music even was, let alone appreciate the effort and talent musicians had. 

            “Let’s join the others,” Veda said, taking Thorin’s arm and bringing him into the living room. 

            There weren’t many there; his grandfather, his mother – his father busy still at the bank, his uncle Fundin and Fundin’s second wife, Terese. That of course, meant that his cousin, Dwalin, wasn’t there; he and Terese didn’t get on. His sister, Dis, like Dwalin, had declined tonight’s dinner, both boys down with chicken pox.

            “Hello, sweetheart.”  Thorin’s mother, Fris, was at his side the moment he entered the room; placing a kiss on his cheek.

            “Hi,” Thorin said, returning the kiss.  “How are the boys?”

            “Doing better,” Fris said.  “Their fevers are gone and they will be heading back to school come Monday.”

            Thorin truly smiled at that; his nephews were crazy insane little hellions. I loved them so.

            “How did your audition go?” Fris asked excitedly.  However, the expression on Thorin’s face said far more than words. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetie.”

            Thorin nodded.  He knew his mother and grandmother understood his struggle, but his grandfather on the other hand –

            “I told you this is where you would end up, my boy.” Thror didn’t mean to hurt Thorin; it was just that it hurt nonetheless.  “You should come work at the bank.”

            “Grandfather,” Thorin sighed.  It was an old argument.  “I can’t.”

            “You could,” Thror insisted.

            “We can help you get settled in if need be,” Fundin suggested. He, like Thror, didn’t understand Thorin’s musical aspirations, but he at least understood Thorin’s desire to stand on his own; Dwalin had gone into the military against his family wishes and had succeeded.

            “Thank you, Uncle Fundin, but you know I’m rubbish with numbers.” That wasn’t quite true. Thorin’s study of music had helped him easily conquer mathematics when he was young.  But that wasn’t exactly what Thorin meant.  “I just can’t ... sit, behind a desk and—”

            “You sit behind that damn instrument,” Thror threw out.

            “That’s different,” Thorin said, getting a little irritated, a little angry. He knew he had to rein it in, or else the night would see him empty-handed.

            “Maybe you could go back to school?” Terese suggested sweetly. The woman was very nice in her way, but she was a bit clueless about the world around her sometimes and about the family dynamics for sure. Thorin had no doubt that had she lived during the French Revolution, Terese would have blithely suggested the peasants eat cake simply because she thought it would help.

            “I’m afraid that isn’t an option,” Thorin said kindly. “Besides, music is what I love.”

            “Love doesn’t pay the rent,” Thror said pointedly, giving Thorin a hard stare.

            Thorin got the message.  Clearly Thror guessed, correctly, that Thorin had accepted tonight’s invitation because he needed money to pay bills, and Thror was basically telling Thorin ‘no’ before the question even came up.

            Thorin was indeed going home empty-handed.

            “Let’s eat,” Veda said brightly and urging everyone into the dining room. She held Thorin back so that it was she, he and his mother at the last.  “Here,” she whispered discreetly, taking his hand and placing something in it.

            When he looked down, there was a small bundle of large notes in his hand. “Gran,” Thorin tired to give it back. It was bad enough to grovel to his grandfather; he couldn’t take money from his grandmother.

            “Take it,” Fris insisted, firmly and with a tone of not to argued with her   She deftly slipped a hand into his pocket and he felt her deposit her own wad of cash. 

            “Mum.” Thorin was feeling even worse now.

            “Your grandfather is wrong,” Fris said.  “Love absolutely does pay the rent.  And the electric and the phone and for food.”

            “And we do love you, darling,”  Veda said, giving Thorin’s arm a squeeze.  “Let us help you.”

            Thorin felt miserable now.  Worse still because he knew he needed it.  If he guessed right, his mother and grandmother had just given him enough money for the next two months; probably a bit more than that really.

            By the time he got home, he had come to terms with his grandmother’s and mother’s monetary gifts.  He had another audition tomorrow and, while it was not much, it might lead to better things, better contacts, and better jobs. 

            As he sat by the open window, wondering what he should play tomorrow, he decided that the least he could do was to play his mother’s favorite piece as a tribute.  With that in mind, his hands began to play [Rachmaninoff’s _‘Rhapsody.'_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwNxZvFpL4Q)

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo desperately tried to unlock the door while also trying to balance his takeaway; the phone was ringing.  Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he was desperate; he was so terribly late. 

            “Hello,” Bilbo said, breathlessly, as he picked up the receiver.

            “Bilbo, my boy,” came the cheery voice of his mother’s oldest and dearest friend, Professor Gandalf Grey.

            “Gandalf,” Bilbo said, taking a breath and calming.  He checked on his food; he’d practically tossed it on the table as he ran past; it was fine.  “How are you?”  Bilbo retraced his steps and closed the front door, kicking off his shoes, and dropping his saddlebag next to them.

            “I’m well, thank you,” Gandalf said, “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

            Bilbo was – well, he was better.  Not great, but better.  At the moment, hearing Gandalf’s voice, he couldn’t help but think of his mother, laughing and gossiping with Grey in the kitchen at Bag End; both enjoying their tea and totally unaware of themselves being watched by Bilbo.  “I’m … getting on.” That was true.  To an extent.

            “I’ve been more than worried about you,” Gandalf said softly.

            Bilbo knew that Gandalf wasn’t alone in that.  “Have you?”  It was an evasive tactical, fake ignorance.

            “You’re grandfather called me,” Gandalf added quietly.

            _Of course, he did_ , Bilbo thought. _I'm not surprised._  He really wasn’t, and he wouldn’t pretend otherwise.  “I’m sure.”

            “He is devastated, Bilbo,” Gandalf said.  "And he misses you, terribly."

            _No, he misses Mum terribly_. Bilbo felt the tiniest bit of annoyance; his grandfather wasn’t the only one hurt and devastated.  But the feeling died quickly; Granddad was ninety-eight years old, sixty-five years older than Bilbo, so naturally, his pain was far more concerning. He had been so close to and adored Belladonna so much that her loss was probably as much a physical blow, as it was an emotional one.  “He wants me to move home.”

            “He knows that's asking a great deal of you,” Gandalf said. “Don’t think that he is unfeeling about your own—”

            “I know he’s not,” Bilbo insisted and it was true. 

            “You are all he has left at this point.”

            Bilbo almost laughed at that.  “He has many other grandchildren,” Bilbo said, dryly. In total, Gerontius “Gerry” Took, had over twenty-eight grandchildren.  Yet there was no denying by anyone that it was he, Bilbo Baggins, the only son of his favorite daughter, that the ‘Old-Took’, had a special bond with.  Hell, Bilbo was the only one to go and visit the man at the care-home he lived at.

            “It is you he wants,” Gandalf stated.

            “Only because he thinks he can hold onto Mum a bit longer.” Bilbo winced, that had slipped out and it sounded bitter even to him; he hadn’t meant it.  “I’m sorry, that was inappro—”

            “No, it’s true,” Gandalf said matter-of-factly.  “However, while you may be a bridge between himself and your mother’s memory, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love and need you.”

            “I know that.”  Bilbo was going to start crying if this continued, and he really did have to go, as selfish as the desire was.  “Look, Doctor Grey, I need to—”

            “I won’t keep you,” Gandalf said; he knew Bilbo all too well. “I just wanted to call and, honestly, see if you were all right yourself.”

            Bilbo smiled to himself.  “I’m getting there.”

            “Give yourself time, my boy,” Gandalf said gently.  “And I assure you, neither your grandfather nor I, are urging you to move home or do anything of the sort. Just … remember your grandfather and maybe visit a bit more.”

            “I know.  And I will, I promise.”

            “Good. I look to seeing you soon, then.”

            “Good-night, Gandalf.”

            “Good-night,” Gandalf said.

            Bilbo went to hang up the phone when he heard Gandalf call out, “Oh, Bilbo!”

            “Yes?!” Bilbo put the phone back to his ear.

            “Enjoy your dinner,” Gandalf said, the amusement clear in his voice and then the phone line went dead.

            Bilbo just stared at the phone in his hand.  _How the hell did Gandalf know_ — Bilbo just shook his head and hung up the phone; Gandalf was always doing weird shit like that.

            Suddenly Bilbo remembered the time; almost nine!  He hurried to his window and opened it, the night air rushing in.

            Doubt crept over him; did he arrive home too late?  What if tonight was the night that there was no music? What if his unknown musician wasn’t well and couldn’t, or wouldn’t, play? What if tonight was the first night of many silent nights?  What if Bilbo was left alone again?  What would he do, if—

            The first string sounded, tentative and beautiful.

            Bilbo slowly sat down, his dinner completely forgotten, as [Rachmaninoff’s ‘Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jwNxZvFpL4Q)’ drifted in and stole his breath; it had been his mother’s favorite piece.

 

 

TBC

 

 

  


	3. Serenade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SERENADE - a piece of music sung or played in the open air, typically by a man at night under the window of his lover.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin is serenading Bilbo ... he just doesn't know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those interested - i have a playlist on youtube for this fic. All the music featured can be found there, in order that it appears in the story.
> 
>  
> 
> __  
> [A Little Night Music - The Soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dCKG5XrZeT8&list=PLmqVIBoWmjW7KlpvXYeulsy55tCkFVI_b)  
> 

* * *

 

 

            Thorin rolled over and contemplated just staying in bed and never getting out; it certainly wouldn’t make a difference to his life.

            Maybe his grandfather was right after all.  Maybe it was a waste of time to pursue a dream that was turning into more of a fantasy; a fairy tale.  Maybe it was ultimately pointless.

            _“It’ll never amount to a thing!”_

            The years were proving Thror’s assessment of him true; he was nothing – thirty-five, out of work, out of discernible options.  Out of time.

            Deciding that he should get the day over with, he got up, stretched, ran his hands through his hair and scratched his scalp.  He ignored the rumpled bed; he’d deal with it later. He used the facilities as it were, trimmed up his bread and ‘man-scaped.’  He took a long, hot shower, brushed and flossed, picked out comfortable, business-casual clothes – black shoes, black pants and black polo – and went to make himself coffee; he never ate before an audition.

            He’d been up late the night before, practicing.  He felt ready and confident for today’s audition; which could only go better than the last two he’d had.

            The first one had been the day after his grandparent’s dinner. It had been a quartet; they played receptions and gatherings; teas and whatnot.  However, while his playing was superb, the leader, the violinist, thought it his job to tell everyone else how to play his or her instrument!  Like who the hell did the guy think he was telling Thorin about technique and how to play harp?! Thorin had basically told the guy to fuck off.

            No, correction, he’d actually _had_ told the guy to ‘Go fuck yourself!’ to his face.

            Not his best choice of words.

            The second had been three days later.  It was a small chamber orchestra and had seemed promising. Promising that was, until the leader, an older, rather stuffy self-important cello-player, looked Thorin up and down, narrowed his eyes and asked, “Do you know a Thranduil Oropherlion?”

            Needless to say, he didn’t even get to play at that one.

            Should he give up?  Should he just admit defeat and surrender?  Could he even look at his grandfather and beg for a job with the family firm? He wasn’t sure he had the stomach to see the possible smug look in Thror’s eyes.

            Last night he’d put all the effort he could muster into practicing for the audition; if it was to be his last, he might as well give it everything he had.       

            He had finished his meager dinner and, after cleaning up, decided that he would warm up with a few classic folk songs; ‘ _[Scarborough Faire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EdwB-gKQPek)’_ , ‘[ _Greensleeves_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KP2Zr2JdHnE)’, and his personal favorite _, ‘[Sleep My Pretty Little Lady](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j4wBsT1vb9c).’_  

            It was as he’d finished the last, that he swore he heard … a sigh? He stilled and listened, but there was nothing else. 

            He should have realized then.

            He got out the two pieces he wanted to play for today’s audition, ‘[ _Vltava (Moldau)_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TnYCW8eWqQo)’ by B. Smetana, and ‘ _[First Arabesque](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LZWkdu6s_a4)’_ by Debussy. They were good pieces to show off his talent and technique, but also they were pieces he’d done both before and thought them perfect, easy chooses – he didn’t want to try something new at an audition; even one as small and short-term as this job promised to be. He’d gone through both compositions twice, making changes here and there so that they had his own personal style, but not so much as to take away from what the composer had intended.

            It happened as he wrapped up. The last note of Arabesque had barely finished when he heard clapping.

            Thorin was stunned.  He had no idea anyone was listening; although when he thought about it later, he'd been sitting by an open window.  That, of course, made him wonder, how long and how many times had his secret audience listened to his playing?  How many nights had he given a private performance for whoever it was that now showed their appreciation?

            At the same time, he realized that the clapping had stopped.   He went to the window, hoping that his listener was also looking for him, but no sooner had his hands touched the sill, then he heard the click of a window shutting. 

            “Thank you,” he called out, but there was no reply back. He wasn’t sure if his patron heard him; hell, he wasn’t even sure if _anyone_ heard him.

            Thorin smiled to himself thinking on it; even now in bright light of late morning.  Yes, he would admit that his first emotion was embarrassment.  But that faded quickly in the realization that someone had appreciated his performance, his artistry, his talent. 

             It was a good feeling. He hoped it would carry him through the day.

            It was time to go.  He grabbed his things, his sheet music, locked the door, and moved to the lift. He was going over arrangements in his head; which piece should he do first?  Should he consider doing a lighter piece that he knew by heart if they asked for more, or should he, perhaps, do another heavier piece that was in his satchel? As the lift doors opened, he was completely lost in his own thoughts, only giving the elderly lady already inside a nod of greeting.

            He took a deep breath and froze.  Right there, above the control panel was taped an envelope; an enveloped addressed:

 

**_FOR THE HARPIST_ **

 

            He snatched the envelope quickly, ignoring the rather astonished look the lady gave him.  The paper was good quality, the handwriting – beautiful script that he could tell was done with a fountain pen – was all lovely swirls and curls.  On the back was a wax-seal; a wax-seal, like some antique correspondence that hadn’t seen the light of day since it was written.

            Pained to break the wax, inside he found that the folded page wasn’t a letter, but a quick note; in the same lovely script.

           

_I cannot tell you how much your music has meant to me.  You have helped me through a most difficult time in my life; a time when I thought the world cold and devoid of beauty._

_But you have shown me differently; you have given me hope._

_And I will be forever grateful._

_Thank you._

 

            It was unsigned.  Why was it unsigned?!  Did they feel embarrassed or ashamed for having eavesdropped?  Thorin hoped not; he didn’t mind at all.  In fact, he doubted his secret patron was even aware of how much this letter, this simple note, touched him.

            Whoever it was, had now given Thorin hope.  Maybe he shouldn’t give up.  Maybe he just needed to carry on and keep trying.  By the gods, if his practicing could do such a thing for someone, how many others felt like this when he gave a real performance, but he just never knew?

            Talk about hope!

           

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo had been so embarrassed.  He still was.

            It’d been almost three weeks since he’d started listening to his neighbor. Three weeks of the most beautiful, glorious music.  Three weeks where he could push all that had happened to the back of his mind and simple float, the sound of his neighbor's harp carrying him away from everything.

            Wondrous.

            Last night hadn’t been different from the others.  He’d come home from work, made himself a meal of fish and roasted veggies, a nice glass of rose wine and proceeded to sit by the open window and wait for the night’s concert to begin. 

            Whatever was going on with the harpist, it must have been big. First, there were the lovely folk songs, some of his favorite to be honest.  He wondered vaguely if the harpist would play old Christmas music in December; talk about lovely!  Of course, in all likelihood, the windows would all be closed come December. After the folks songs, there was a break of about 10 minutes or so, just enough time for Bilbo to take the dishes to the kitchen, pour himself a third glass of wine; hell he ended up bring the wine back to the living room, and listened as the harpist pushed on with two sophisticated pieces.  He wasn’t familiar with the first, but he had heard the second, one by Debussy, although the name escaped him. 

            Oh, it was beautiful and for a while, there was nothing else in the world but him and the music and night.

            He should have known better than to drink all that wine.

            When the music stopped, he just started clapping.  It was natural; his neighbor had given him a gift, the least he could do was show a little appreciation.  Of course, seconds later, he realized –

            _OH, MY GOD!  WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME!_   Bilbo had screamed at himself internally.

            Moving quickly he shut the window and locked it.  Bad enough to have alerted his neighbor that he was being spied on, but for Bilbo to give himself away was just – no, that couldn’t happen. He’d shut his light off too, just in case his neighbor looked out and noticed which window was lit up and put two and two together and got ‘peeping tom’ out of it.

            Bilbo heard a vague, ‘Thank you’ called out and wanted to die. He really should be ashamed of himself.

            But the thank you hadn’t sounded upset and Bilbo had hoped that maybe he wasn’t in trouble after all. 

            Maybe he should find out who his neighbor was and go apologize? Try and explain his odd behavior? Maybe explain what had happened recently and why he’d found such comfort and –

            Right, because knocking on a stranger’s door and talking about his dead mother was just the perfect way to meet someone.

            No, he had a better idea.

            It took him an hour to get the wording right.  He wanted to tell the person – well, man; the voice that had thanked him was definitely a man’s – how much his music had meant to him, but without going into specifics; the guy didn’t need to know that.  And he wanted it to be pleasant, but sincere. In the end, it was more a short note, just a little something to explain his reasoning and he prayed that the unstated hope of continued performances came through.

            But where to leave it.

            He could put it by the mailboxes but that wasn’t wise; anyone could take it and/or read it.  Of course, that would be true if he put it anywhere in the building but somehow, the lift seemed more appropriate; only residents and their guests had access to that.

            He left early the next morning and sighed relief when he stepped onto an empty lift. He taped his message over the controls and left.

            For the rest of the day he wondered; did he do the right thing? Would it have been better to not acknowledge the clapping or the fact that he’d been listening? What if the guy thought Bilbo a freak or some kind of stalker?  What if he was offended? What if he was mad?!

            Frankly, he’d already hung up the letter, a bit late now to worry about it.

            By the time he schlepped himself home, he was mentally tired and figured the worst that could happen was that either the harpist stopped playing or just never took Bilbo’s note.   In fact, as he waited for the lift, he half expected to see his letter still taped over the controls.

            When the doors opened, he got in and, sure enough, there was a letter, taped right where he’d left it in the morning.  Sighing he pressed his floor and chanced a look at the sad envelope taped above.

            _OMG!_  It wasn't his note, still hanging up there ignored, _It was to him_!

            Well, not to ‘him’, but addressed to:

 

**_FOR THE HARPIST’S FRIEND_ **

 

            Bilbo stood there, staring at the thing like it was something mythical and not to be touched or disturbed.  Of course, that feeling only lasted a few seconds, before Bilbo tore it open and read the note inside.

           

            _My friend,_

_Thank you for your note. I haven’t the eloquence of writing that you have but know that your words have given me hope in their own way. Like you, I am going through a difficult time but your letter has lifted my spirits more than you can know._

_And that is no small thing to me._

_Let me repay you._

_Tonight – 7 pm._

_T -_

            Bilbo read the letter three times.  How could this man say he had no eloquence for words; the note was so heartfelt and warm.   ‘T’; what was that? Did it stand for ‘Thanks?’ Was it 'Ta?'  One of his initials?  Maybe.  But if it was an initial, was it his first or his last?  And tonight – seven p.m.  Bilbo looked at this watch; six-twenty.

            Once inside his flat, he went to the fridge, pulled out some left-overs, threw them in the oven, he ripped off his clothes tossing them on the bed, took a quick shower, redressed in whatever loungewear he could get his hands on, and then hurried back to the kitchen.  He poured himself a glass of wine, scooped the now warm food onto a plate, and rushed over to the living room window.  Slowly, discreetly and silently, Bilbo unlocked and opened the window, then sat down.

            He waited only a few minutes and then, drifting over the air came the sounds of Bach’s, _‘[Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BrrzmAlGsIg).’_

            Perfect.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 


	4. Sostenuto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SOSTENUTO - (of a passage of music) to be played in a sustained or prolonged manner.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Bilbo has no problem sustaining his anonymity ... but not Thorin's

* * *

 

            “I’m so happy for you darling!” Fris said, pouring some tea for Thorin and then herself.  They had both come to visit Dis and check on the boys.

            “Thanks, Mum,” Thorin said, smiling easily.  “It’s a small group but they’re very talented and they’re pretty much booked every other day for the next two months.”

            “Still,” Dis said.  “It’s only temporary, right?”

            Thorin nodded.  “Just until their harpist comes back from a maternity leave.” 

            “I’m amazed they have that benefit,” Fris commented, taking a sip of tea.

            “They don’t,” Thorin said, fighting the urge to laugh. “It’s just that the woman’s husband works for IBM or something and he works from home; she can afford to take off with the baby.”

            “Lucky her,” Fris said seriously.  “So many don’t get that luxury anymore.”

            “Regardless,” Dis said with a sigh.  “Thorin is going to be out of a job come two months.”

            Thorin knew his sister meant well, but he rolled his eyes; he understood the nature of the business, why couldn’t she?  “I look at it as two months of getting paid while making contacts. Some of their bookings are for big company receptions and gatherings, I might well be able to parley that into something.”

            Dis looked at him dubiously but said nothing more.  Fris took a more pragmatic outlook.

            “At least Thorin will have steady money for the next two months,” Fris said pointedly.  She had always made it known that she cared little for money, except to make sure her children were taken care of; she worried for Thorin continuously.  “And one never knows, that young lady may decide not to come back at all and then Thorin will be in the perfect position to continue on.”

            “I doubt that will happen,” Thorin said, with a chuckle. “I almost didn’t get it to begin with.”

            “Why ever not?” Fris looked offended for Thorin, even without having it explained to her.  “You’re extremely talented; they would be lucky to keep you.”

            “It wasn’t about talent in the beginning,” Thorin said, thinking back on it.

 

            _“I’m sorry,” said the group’s leader, Neeka, who played first violin.  “If I’d known beforehand …”_

_Thorin nodded; she didn’t need to finish.  They’d been through it already. It was one thing to be rejected because someone thought him untalented or not a good fit for the group, or even because he was gay; he’d been there before.  But, it was the first time he’d been rejected right off because of his gender._

_“If only Cris had told me you were a man,” Neeka said, apologetically._

_“He probably thought it was a great joke,” said the cellist, Branny, with a cynical sneer. She clearly didn’t find the situation funny._

_None of them did; it was uncomfortable and embarrassing._

_“Knowing Cris,” Thorin said, “he just didn’t know better.  He can be a bit ...”_

_“Of an idiot?” Branny supplied dryly._

_“I was thinking more … oblivious,” Thorin said, willing to give Cris the benefit of the doubt._

_Thorin got the audition through a mutual friend of the string quintet’s leader and himself named Crispin Mathers.  Cris was a good guy, awesome flute player, but a bit of a berk. Cris, knowing the group,_ Five Strings _, needed a harpist for a short period of time, put Thorin’s name forward; totally misspelling Thorin in the process by using an ‘A’ rather than an ‘I.’  This led the others to believe he was a woman; which was significant since it was an all female, feminist group._

_“It just isn’t right,” said the second violinist, Charlotte._

_“I agree with Charlotte,” said Meg, the bass player._

_“What do you suggest?” Branny smirked.  “We go find Cris and pummel him with our instruments?”_

_“I didn’t mean that.” Charlotte rolled her eyes._

_“I keep thinking about what Emma Watson said at the U.N.”  Meg said._

_“Exactly!” Charlotte looked pleased._

_“What do you mean?” Neeka asked._

_“Aren’t we doing the very thing we complain about in others, to Thorin?”_

_“Which is?” Branny demanded._

_“We’re judging him on his gender, not his abilities.” Meg seemed to think it was obvious._

_“We’re a female group!” Branny countered._

_“We’re a feminist group, first and foremost,” Neeka added quietly._

_“That’s why we formed the group, yes,” Charlotte said, looking more pleased that the others were getting it.  “And if this situation were reversed, if any of us were auditioning and we were shut out because we were a woman, we’d be all over that shit like white on rice!”_

_Neeka and Branny exchanged a pointed look between them but had no argument for Charlotte’s comment._

_“Just because he’s a man,” Meg added, “doesn’t mean he isn’t a feminist.”_

_Thorin wanted to point out that he was very much a feminist and that his sister Dis, a work-at-home mom, was the major bread-winner of her family and he totally supported that, but he thought it best to keep his mouth shut and let the women work it out themselves; he’d respect their decision either way._

_“We should audition him for his talent,” Meg finished, “not judge him on his physical attributes.”_

_“And I will bet you,” Charlotte said.  “That if we call Rachel, she will agree with us.”  It hadn’t been said, but Thorin guessed that Rachel must be the woman he was filling in for._

_There was silence for several long minutes.  Clearly, Neeka was thinking it all over and Branny was on the fence still._

_“Look,” Branny turned to Thorin, “I, personally, don’t have any issue with you—”_

_“I’m not taking it personally,” Thorin said, holding up his hands.  He wasn’t really, he understood their positions._

_“—it’s just that …” Branny turned to the others.   “What would our clients say?”_

_“Who gives a rat’s arse?!” Meg said._

_“If anyone has a problem with a male feminist,” Charlotte said, looking smug.  “I will be more than happy to give them a piece of my mind! And educate them on what it means to be a feminist.”_

_“They’re right, Branny,” Neeka said.  “And while we have been all-female before, we should not repeat the mistakes of others and not audition Thorin_ just _because he’s a man.”_

_Branny opened her mouth as if to argue but deflated.  She finally nodded, finally agreeing with the others._

_“Okay, Thorin,” Neeka said, giving him a soft smile.  “If we haven’t completely insulted you by now, would you still like to audition?”_

_“Of course,” Thorin said happily. He wasn’t upset or insulted. He really did understand their points of view._

_He got out his harp, his music and took a few deep breaths as he plucked out a few notes, checking the tune. When he was done, he closed his eyes and he remembered the note he had received that morning._

_‘_ _I cannot tell you how much your music has meant to me’_

_‘I will be forever grateful’_

_‘Thank you’_

_He smiled to himself and began to play.  He imaged he was playing for his secret patron, putting all the warmth of emotion he could into the music; trying to say how much that simple note had meant to him in every note he played. By the time he finished, the time had flown by and he seemed to come out of a dream and back to reality._

_A reality that had tears in it._

_“That was so beautiful,” Charlotte said, through sniffles._

_Meg on nodded, handing an extra tissue to Charlotte._

_“Truly was lovely,” Branny said, as if in spite of herself._

_“Thank you, Thorin,” Neeka said quietly.  “We’ll be in contact with you. Whichever way we decide; we’ll call you.”_

_He thanked them; it was all he could do.  They’d at least taken the time to hear him.  It was not fifteen minutes after he’d left when his mobile rang and they offered him the position._

_It felt good to have work, to be appreciated and given a chance.  But he also felt that his secret admirer was due a great deal of credit; whoever they were, they’d been there with him, even if it is was just in spirit._

            “You are very lucky they gave you that chance,” Dis said.

            “I know it,” Thorin agreed.  “I am grateful.”

            “And who is this mysterious admirer of yours?” Fris asked with a wiggle of eyebrows.

            He knew what she was doing.  “For all I know, it’s an elderly old woman who is stuck in her flat and whose husband hates harp music.”  His mother and sister both laughed.

            “Let me see the note,” Dis asked, holding out her hand. It wasn’t a request so much as a command.

            Thorin handed Dis the precious piece of paper, and she and Fris read the letter. Dis looked it over like an art expert deciding if a painting was a fraud or not, while his mother was much more forgiving.

            “How sweet,”  Fris said. “I wonder what happened for him to feel so down.”

            “Like I said,” Thorin pointed out, “I don’t even know if it’s a man or—”

            “A woman did not write this,” Dis announced firmly, still looking over the note, turning it over to check out the paper as well.

            “What do you mean by that?”  Thorin asked.

            “Nothing,” Dis looked back at the handwriting.  “I don’t mean anything, in particular, just that—”

            “That’s ridiculous,” Thorin reached out and took the note back. “You can’t know just looking—”

            “I’m telling you,” Dis stated, “A woman did not write that.”

            Thorin looked at the note and didn’t say what he really felt; he hoped it was a man.  He hoped that it was a man who was single, like him, and who enjoyed quiet nights, like him, and who wanted something more than a quick fuck and empty promises to call.

            Like him.

            He didn’t voice his hopes because if he had, he’d also have to admit his fears; he wouldn’t find a man like that – ever.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            “What is wrong with you?!” Ori demanded his hands on his hips.

            “There’s nothing wrong with me,” Bilbo insisted, sitting at Ori’s kitchen table and avoiding his best-friend’s glare.

            “You listen to some guy play music for weeks,” Ori said, turning back to the cake he was making.  “Then, when you are discovered, you leave him a note, a fucking note like you’re back in primary, but you didn’t even fucking sign the damn thing!”

            Bilbo sighed; he hated when Ori hit the nail on the head. “I only left the note because I got caught.”  He swore right then and there, no more drinking a bottle of wine when listening to his harpist.

            “Oh, don’t I know that!” Ori spat out with a hollow laugh. “You would have pined away—”

            “I’m not pining.”  Much, Bilbo thought.

            “Bullshit!” Ori countered.  “I know you, Bilbo Baggins, you would have let that damn ‘Baggins sense of propriety’ take over and you would never have ever let him know you were listening to him, unless your Took side, as you call it, had you finally doing the right thing!”

            Bilbo really hated that Ori knew him so well.  And it was so true.  The Tooks would have been thrilled that Bilbo had taken the leap, but that didn’t say much coming from a family who wore their insanity like a badge and proudly counted instability as an attribute.  And the Baggins truly would have been appalled at his note leaving, thinking it near scandalous; not surprising coming from a family so anally retentive that they should all fear to sit down on furniture.  How his parents found love together—

            “Bilbo,” Ori said gently, coming to sit down at the table. “You always talk about what a great romance your parents had.  It was beautiful and wonderful and I know you want that as well.”

            God, Bilbo really hated being such an open book to Ori.

            “But you won’t ever find that if you don’t start opening up.”

            _Why did it always come back to that,_ Bilbo wondered.  _Because it’s always about that in the end_ , his inner voice replied.  Yes, his parents had a perfect marriage by all accounts and it was joyous to be around them and yes, Bilbo wanted that too.  But every time he got close to it, something always happened.   Hamfast found love and married Belle; he and Bilbo were young so Bilbo wasn’t surprised really and he did adore Belle and she and Ham were very happy together.  There had been a few more here and there, but he thought he’d found it with Bofur. But they were too good of friends for it to be romantic.  And ultimately, they just drifted apart.  Bofur was happy with Ori’s brother, Nori, and Bilbo was happy for them both. Just like Ham and Belle.

            But where was Bilbo’s great love?  Nowhere.

            “I’m happy with the way it is,” Bilbo said quietly.

            “But it’s not real,” Ori countered.

            “Real enough,” Bilbo replied.  “This way, I have music every night at seven, we share a link and yet, I won’t disappoint him and he and I can go on living our lives.  No one gets hurt.”

            “It’s an empty existence,” Ori said.  “It’s a lie.  And you’re kidding yourself when you say you won’t get hurt because I know you, you hurt every time the music stops.”

            Christ, did it ever.  Bilbo had lain awake for hours in his bed, surrounded by the night, and dreading the silence.

            But there was something he dreaded even more.

            “My fear, Ori, is that if I met him, it might change everything, and then it will all come to an end.  This way, I at least have his music.”

            Ori stood up and moved back his cake.  “Music is lovely, Bilbo, but it’s a poor substitute for love.”

            He laughed.  “You know, for all I know, he’s a troll of a man that smells like sweat and smokes cigars and doesn’t do a tap of work.”

            “Really,” Ori said flatly.  “When, exactly, did you last meet a cigar smoking day-laborer that also played harp like the angels?”

            Okay, Ori had him there.

            “You should leave him a note,” Ori said firmly, “and this time, sign the damn thing!”

            Bilbo wasn’t sure about that, but watching Ori, he got an entirely different idea.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            He stayed late at his sister's, to the point that when he got home, he was starving.  He didn’t have much in the fridge, he wasn’t much of a cook, but there was some pizza left over and he thought there might be some Chinese but he couldn’t remember if he ate it already or not.

            As he came off the lift, he stopped dead in the hall; outside his door was a box. It was taped shut with packing tape, and the only writing was on the side of the box; an upward pointing arrow and the word, ‘FRAGILE.’ 

            And the word was written in that same lovely script as his note!

            Instantly he looked around, but clearly his admirer was not going to hang-about if he was leaving things anonymously. 

            He could hear Dwalin say, _‘Leave the damn thing alone!  It could be a bomb or something!’_ , and his grandfather and father would probably say the same thinking that it was strange.  His sister would advise caution but would be okay with it in the end and his grandmother would worry but not freak-out.  His mother, on the other hand, would find it lovely and romantic and would urge Thorin on.

            Yeah, he liked his mother’s advice best.

            Unlocking the door, he gingerly picked up the box – it was heavier than he thought – and brought it in, placing it on the table.  He took off his shoes, hung up his jacket, looked at the thing for a moment before retrieving a knife from the kitchen, and gliding it firmly but gently through the tape.

            No sooner were the flaps opened then his nose was treated to the smell of roasted meat; it was dinner.   The dishes – and they were oven-safe glass, not cheap throw-a-ways – held a thick, rich looking stew and a great deal of it; enough for two or three meals! There was a small dish of cream-soaked broccoli dusted with nutmeg.   Another covered dish held brownies and there was even a small bottle of French red.

            And there was a note!

 

            _T –_

_Too many nights I have had the pleasure of your accompaniment while I ate.  I thought the least I could do would be to return the favor._

_I hope you enjoy it._

_B –_

           

            ‘B.’ Thorin was elated and slight disappointed at the same time.  He had a letter, but not a full name.  And was it a last or a first name?

            _Why the hell didn’t they give me their full name?!_

He reminded himself though, he had done the same thing; so unsure in the beginning, Thorin had only signed his first initial.  And since he hadn’t indicated whether ‘T’ was his first or last name, he certainly couldn’t expect any different from his admirer.

            But his secret admirer was clever, oh so clever.  He at least had figured out where Thorin lived.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo hoped he had the right place!

            When he got back from Ori’s, he knew he would make food for his harpist. But where to put it? The mailboxes? Not a good idea; like the letter, anyone could take it. 

            That’s when he realized; the mailboxes!

            There were six flats on each floor and there where eight floors in total; not counting the ground floor of course which had building offices for the manager, maintenance, a library, a resident gym, a small conference room, a computer room next to the library and a party hall that residents could book. There were even two small efficiencies that resident could rent for out-of-town visitors that wanted their own space but be close.

            However, more telling were the mailboxes in the mailroom. He had no idea if ‘T’ was the man’s first or last name but he decided to look at the labels on the mailboxes. Everyone had the same type of label, their first initial and their last name.

            Looking over the labels, there ended up being seven residents who either had ‘T’ as their first initial or as the first letter of their last name. Since Bilbo lived on the sixth floor and knowing that his harpist was clearly heard, that meant, most likely, the man lived between the fourth and eighth floor; he couldn’t be more than two floors away.  That left just four residents; B. Thomason – eighth floor, T. Edwards – also eighth floor, T. Durin – fifth floor, and T. Langley – fourth floor.

            But which one?

            Thinking logically, Bilbo was going to go with the idea, that ‘T’ was the harpist’s first name.  He could be wrong but something told him—

            “Good afternoon, Tilly!”

            Bilbo heard the call just as the door to the mailroom opened and in walked an elderly woman; the aforementioned Tilly.  Tilly called back a greeting to whoever it was that called her first and Bilbo made a slow performance of opening his mailbox while he watched Tilly open the box labeled T. Edwards. 

            Tilly Edwards.  A sideways glance at the woman’s mail told him everything else.  Mrs. Matilda Edwards.

            One down.

            And realizing he had a golden opportunity, his Took side pushed him on.

            “Good afternoon, Mrs. Edwards,” Bilbo said brightly as if he’d known the woman all his life.

            Mrs. Edwards looked confused for a moment; probably trying to remember Bilbo’s name and not realizing that they hadn’t actually spoken before. But it cleared as the woman obviously decided that she had merely forgotten.  “Hello, dear.”

            “How are you?” Bilbo asked.  It was shameful but he had mission.

            “I’m well, thank you.”  Mrs. Edwards was very pleasant; Bilbo was happy for that.

            “How is …” Bilbo took the chance, “Mrs. Thomason?”  He prayed that not only was B. Thomason a woman but that Mrs. Edwards, living on the same floor, was perhaps a friend or some—

            “Beatrix is doing much better,” Mrs. Edwards said.

            Bilbo almost hung his head in relief.  His ruse worked.  “That’s good to know.” And it was good to know; B. Thomason was a woman as well.

            “I’ll let her know you asked after her,” Mrs. Edwards stated as she walked out.

            “Have a nice day,” Bilbo said.  _He was having one!_

            That meant his harpist was either T. Durin or T. Langley.

            But which one?  What if he left food at the wrong door?  Oh, GOD! What if he left it at the right one?!

            He should never have listened to Ori.  But it was too late.  He knew, deep down, that Ori was right, he just … _Get a grip, Baggins and DO IT!_

            Right.

            His phone chimed and he saw he had a text from Gandalf.

            His phone.  His _iPhone_. The one with _Internet_ on it.

            Bilbo rolled his eyes and mentally kicked himself; he really needed to remember how to use this phone.

            He pulled up Safari and figured he'd start with the Durin person first.  He typed in ‘t durin harpist london’ into search.

            Bingo.

            The first choice was a LinkedIn result for THORIN DURIN.  A harpist based in London and there was a picture …

            HOLY MOTHER OF GOD.  Bilbo was dying inside; tall, dark hair, neat trim beard, killer blue eyes.  Bilbo was going to be sick; the man was too gorgeous to be real. Even the rather stern look was softened by a slight Mona Lisa smile that Bilbo could clearly see through the beard.

            He couldn’t back down now.

            Returning to his flat, he gathered the stew he had made earlier in the week, along with the broccoli and the brownies.  He had a few small bottles of wine, so he put one in.  _I hope he likes red._

Placing it all in sturdy box, he wrote a quick note, explaining, trying his best to be amusing and then taping the whole thing shut.  He drew an arrow so that Thorin wouldn’t accidentally turn the box over and wrote ‘FRAGILE’ on it to get the point across.

            Leaving his flat and riding the lift down was one thing but walking over to the man’s door was another.  What if he was home and just happened to open the door at the same moment Bilbo was standing there, holding the box?!  Imagines of himself fainting dead away came to mind, but Bilbo took a deep breath, put the box down and turned to head back to the lift. 

            That’s when he heard the lift stop right at the floor!  SHIT!  He hadn’t realized that the thing had closed and gone down!  Now someone was coming!  He was just opening the door to the stairs when he heard the soft slide of the lift doors opening; he didn’t turn around to see who it was.

            He got back to his place, closed and locked the door, and then just stood there, leaning against the door and catching his breath.

            His mother would be so proud of him!  His father would probably face-palm.

            Well, nothing to do but wait.

            Bilbo went about making his own dinner; Chicken Marsala with Portobello mushrooms and linguini.   He had another small dish of the broccoli still and he headed that up too.  He poured himself a glass of white and when he was done, he noticed that it was five minutes to seven. 

            He took his wine, went into the living room, quietly opened the window and waited.

            As the clock chimed seven, Bilbo heard the first tentative notes of a harp; scales to warm up.  Then, as the scales stopped, without hesitation, Bilbo heard the first chords of _[Beethoven’s Sonata in D Minor; The Moonlight Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UkLJNiLn7zU)_.

 

 

TBC

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Five ladies mentioned as the members of the quintet, FIVE STRINGS, are named for real people:
> 
> Neeka can be found as neekanoo on tumblr and as neeka on AO3  
> Branny can be found as bubbysbub on tumblr and as bubbysbub on AO3  
> Charlotte can be found as northerntrash on tumblr and as northerntrash on AO3  
> Meg can be found as meg_thilbo on tumblr and as meg_thilbo on AO3  
> Rachel can be found as erbailey on tumblr and as beetle on AO3
> 
> I hope you all don't mind me using you as characters ....
> 
> \------------
> 
> The scene were Dis says, 'A woman did not write this' is a parody of a scene in the movie Big Eden.


	5. Glissando

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GLISSANDO - performed with a gliding effect by sliding one or more fingers rapidly over the keys of a piano or strings of a harp.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin would love to glide his fingers over something other than his harp ...

* * *

 

 

            “ _What_ _the fuck_ do you mean, you ate it?!”

            Thorin rolled his eyes, even though Dwalin couldn’t see it over the phone, before snarking dryly, “What part of eating do you not understand? Except for the use of utensils, of course, I know you prefer to use your fingers usually.”  After Dwalin’s expected _‘Fuck you’_ , Thorin fondly recalled the stew he had the night before. “It was fucking amazing.” Whoever ‘B’ was, he was a damn good cook! In fact, it was so good, Thorin almost ate all of it in one go; only at the last minute did he think of saving a bit for later.

            “You idiot.” Dwalin barked out.  “It could have been poisoned or drugged!”

            “Since I am talking to my loser cousin on the phone, at present,” Thorin quipped, pouring himself a cup of black coffee, “I think we can safely say it wasn’t either of those things.”

            “That’s not the point, you knobhead.”

            Thorin contemplated just hanging up; he was getting tired of the conversation real quick.  “I don’t think—”

            “That’s obvious.”

            “—it was anything but what the note implied; a way of saying thank you.”

            “If this guy really wanted to say thank you, then he should have fucking signed his damn name and asked you out!  His continued anonymity is a little unsettling.”

            Thorin sighed.  He agreed with Dwalin’s last statement, but only in the sense that he really wanted to meet ‘B’ in person.   “This may be his way of being romantic.”

            “This might be his way of getting you to lower your guard.”

            “He might be married.”

            “He might be mentally unbalanced.”

            “He might be shy.”

            “He might be a serial killer.”

            “Christ, Dwalin,” Thorin said, downing half his cup of coffee and pouring the rest down the sink; he was late.  “Why do you suspect every guy that likes me is a real-life Hannibal Lecter?”

            “I don’t know … I mean, what other kinds of guy would go for your sour-face arse?”

            “Good-bye, Dwalin

            “You need to be cautious

            “ _Good-bye_ , Dwalin. I’ll see you tonight.”

            “If you’re still alive; sometimes poison can have a delayed effect.”

            “ _Good-bye, Dwalin_.” Thorin ended the call and headed for the bathroom.  He did a quick brush and gargled, then grabbed his coat, his harp and headed out the door.  As he got on the lift, he took out the envelope from his coat pocket and taped it over the controls.

            He didn’t care what Dwalin said, he had no intention of pushing 'B' for his name.  He'd let 'B' move at his own pace, and, if Thorin was honest, part of him was enjoying the game.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo was running late.  He had overslept, dreaming of strong hands and callused fingers ghosting over his body, drawing sounds from him like a musical instrument.

            Needless to say, when he woke, he had to take care of his throbbing need; that was why he was so late.

            He got on the lift and found it was already occupied.

            “Hello, dear.”

            “Good morning, Mrs. Edwards.”

            As Bilbo turned around he almost lost his footing; there was a note taped above the controls.

 

_FOR THE HARPIST’S FRIEND_

 

            OH GOD!  He wanted to rip it open right then, but—

            “He is lovely, isn’t he?"

            Bilbo shook himself. “Excuse me?”

            “The harpist,” Mrs. Edwards said with a smile and pointing towards the taped envelope.  “His music has been such a joy.” 

            Bilbo couldn’t help but smile.  “Really?”

            “I haven’t heard music like that in years.”  Mrs. Edwards got a dreamy look in her eyes before asking, “Have you heard him?”

            “Oh, well … uhm …” Bilbo shrugged and hoped his ears weren’t red. “Just a … few bits and, uhm … pieces. Now and then.  I mean, not that I am listening.  On purpose!  Just … you know … here and there.”  He really needed to shut up. 

            Mrs. Edwards leaned closer to whisper as if sharing some tasty piece of gossip; which she was.  “We’re all very curious as to what it’s all about.”

            _What did she just say?!_ “What _it’s_ all about?” Bilbo asked, trying to swallow down his panic.

            “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Edwards continued, oblivious to Bilbo’s discomfort. “He’s clearly serenading someone.” She pointed towards the envelope again. “And exchanging letters with them.”

            _Oh my god._ “What … what makes you say that?” It was getting difficult to speak with his throat so dry.

            “The music is so beautiful,” Mrs. Edwards said with another dreamy look. “So full of warmth; one can almost feel the emotion poured into it.”

            Bilbo smiled; he knew precisely what Mrs. Edwards was saying.  “Maybe it’s just his technique.  He is very talented ... as you said ... after all.”

            “True; can’t argue with that.”

            “And maybe the letters are just … thank you.”  

            “Maybe, but …”

            Bilbo couldn’t help but remember Thorin’s first note; _‘_ _Like you, I am going through a difficult time but your letter has lifted my spirits more than you can know.’_ “Why don’t you write him yourself?  Let him know how much you appreciate his playing.”

            “I’d hate to intrude,” Mrs. Edwards said.  “He may not appreciate knowing I’ve been eavesdropping.”

            “If you want my personal opinion,” Bilbo said, as the lift doors opened, “when someone receives praise for their work, that is all that matters to them.” He let Mrs. Edwards go first and then, just as he was almost out the door, quickly snagged the envelope and stuffed it in his back pocket before the doors closed. 

            “You think so?” Mrs. Edwards asked.

            “I think it would mean a great deal to him.”  If Thorin needed his spirits lifted, Bilbo hoped this would help.   “And if others have been listening, as you mentioned, it might be nice to have everyone write one.”

            Mrs. Edwards nodded.  “Thank you, dear. I’ll suggest it to them.” She touched his shoulder in thanks and then turned to the young doorman. “Good-bye, Charles.”

            “Bye, Charlie,” Bilbo called as he exited the building with Mrs. Edwards.

            “Bye, Mr. Baggins. Mrs. Edwards,” Charlie called back.

            As he headed in the opposite direction than his neighbor, Bilbo felt good. Thorin deserved all the praise he could get, for his nightly performances and for his spirit.  A few letters should do the trick nicely.  For his part, Bilbo decided that he would continue cooking for the man as he looked a little too thin in his picture; clearly, he needs someone to look after him.

            As he settled on the tube, he took out Thorin’s letter.

 

            _Dear B –_

_You are so very clever and cunning my friend!  You found me out! (I wish I was as clever so that I may know you as well.)_

_I cannot thank you enough for the delicious stew.  It was wonderful, not to mention thoughtful. Please do not feel that I expect it, or that you are obligated.  My hope is that you are receiving as much joy from my music as I have in making it._

_I will not be home until late tonight, but if you are still awake, and care to listen, I should be home by nine p.m._

_I wish you a good day._

_Thorin_

            Bilbo could only stare at the words before him.   _'Please do not feel that I expect it, or that you are obligated.'_  How sweet of him to say such thing; so polite and so gentle in Bilbo's opinion.  Oh, Thorin, what you do to me.

            But it was the bit _'… I wish I was as clever so that I may know you …’_ Oh, bugger.

 _Now whatcha gonna do now, precious?_   That snickering, traitorous little voice in his head laughed at him.

            As he rushed through the office, he prayed that Ori was at his desk; the Gods were with him.

            “Morning, Bil—”

            Ori never finished as Bilbo dragged him up by an arm and practically flung his ginger-haired best friend into the supply closet; slamming the door behind them.

            “Problem?” Ori asked dryly.

            Bilbo didn’t say a word, just handed the letter over for Ori to read.

            And read it he did.

            “You total arse!” Ori spat out.  “You cooked him food and, obviously, didn’t let him know it was from you! What did I tell you?!”

            “I know, I know!” Bilbo said panicked.  “But it won’t be long before he figures me out!”

            “And how, exactly, did you figure _him_ out?”

            Bilbo sighed and recounted his rouse with Mrs. Edwards and his remembrance of that thing called the Internet.

            “I’ll hand it to you,” Ori said with a smirk, handing Bilbo back his letter. “That was not bad; not bad at all.”

            “Thank you, but,” Bilbo replied, stuffing the letter into his saddlebag. “He’s going to find me soon, and when he does—”

            “He’s going to come knocking on your door.”

            Bilbo closed his eyes.  “May the Gods help me if he does.”

            “If he does,” Ori said, opening the closet door, “Then I think they already are.”

            Bilbo wasn’t so sure about that.

 

\-----ooooo-----

           

            “You know, now that I think about it,” Dwalin said, twirling his linguini about on the plate, “We could always set up some security cameras.”

            Thorin huffed out a sigh.  “Give it a rest, will ya?”

            Dwalin shrugged.  “Don’t you want to find out who this creeper is?”

            “Frist off,” Thorin said, pointing his fork at Dwalin, “he’s not a creeper—”

            “Says you.”

            “—although I do want to find out who he is, but second, and most importantly, I don’t want to treat him like a criminal, because he isn’t one!”

            “You’re deluding yourself.”

            Dwalin didn’t like mystery or not knowing what was going on around him; those were good traits on the battlefield.  Thorin got it.  But this wasn’t a theatre of war and Thorin didn’t want to scare away his admirer. “Until he does something … disturbing—“

            “He already has!”

            “—then I will worry,” Thorin insisted.  “But if making me dinner and leaving me notes of gratitude and praise are criminal, then I will gladly be his victim.”

            “I’ll remember that when you are laid out on a slab in the morgue.”

            Thorin gave up.  

            This was supposed to be a fun night.  He and Dwalin usually got together at least once a month, if not more often, and had dinner, or went to the pub, played pool, caught a movie, just anything to get out and enjoy themselves.  The last several months, though, had been tough given Thorin’s increasingly precarious financial situation.

            “So what’s it like in that new group of yours,” Dwalin smirked.

            “You can wipe that look off your face,” Thorin said seriously. “They are not only talented but probably the most congenial group I’ve been in.”

            “Congenial?” Dwalin chuckled. “Doesn’t sound very exciting.”

            “It’s a string quintet, Dwalin,” Thorin stated.  “We play classical music, how exciting do you want it to be?”

            “I don’t know, I thought there would be more drama or something.”

            “You’re thinking of a gay group,” Thorin replied dryly while Dwalin laughed. “Honestly, they are all intelligent, gifted, hard-working women and when there is any kind of issue, they talk about it openly and honestly; without the name calling and bitching I’ve dealt with in other ensembles.”

            Dwalin shrugged.  “I guess as long as it pays.”

            “It’s more than that,” Thorin pointed out.  “I feel that when we talk of repertoire, they listen to my suggestions and we talk about it together; that’s nice after all the dictator-type leaders I’ve had to put up with,” Thorin said, pushing his plate away; he was done. “Plus, they have booked with some big names and organizations.”

            “So you’re still convinced you can parlay this into something else?”

            “We are performing for a large conference for some big names in the music business.  I most certainly do think this will lead to better opportunities.”

            “Then I’m happy for you.”

            “Thanks.”

            “I know old Thror is pushing for you to come work at the bank.”

            Thorin nodded.  “He still thinks I can’t make it in music.”

            “What do you think?”

            “If you'd asked me a few weeks ago, I'd have told you I'd started having doubts.  But now …”

            “What changed?” Dwalin asked finishing his food.

            “My mysterious admirer,” Thorin said, shooting Dwalin a cocked eyebrow.

            Dwalin groaned.  “Let’s not get on that again!”

            Thorin laughed and changed the subject.  After dinner, they went for a pint and play a game of pool. They met with a couple of Dwalin’s army buddies and had a good time.  But Thorin continued to watch the clock.  He hadn’t told Dwalin, but he didn’t want to be out late; he had a ‘date’ tonight and hoped ‘B’ would still be awake.

            By the time he got home, it was almost twenty after nine.   He changed quickly and opened the living room window.  He listened but he heard nothing.  _Should I just start playing?_ He thought.  _Maybe his window was already open; waiting for me?_ But it was later than he had said and he feared that his admirer was done for the night, closed his window when Thorin hadn’t started playing.

            No. He’d play and hope for the best.

            He gently ran his fingers over the strings, a glissando, not only to ‘warm the strings’ but to announce his presence.

            As the last vibrations faded, Thorin heard the faintest of sounds; the click of a lock unlocking and the gentle creak of a window opening.

            He couldn’t keep from smiling as he began to play [_Lothlorien_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoinBZ6SMZw), by Enya.

 

 

 


	6. Verismo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VERISMO - Realism
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin and Bilbo are both hit with a dose of real life ... only they have two different experiences

* * *

 

 

            Thorin stretched like a lazy cat.  He felt no guilt in allowing himself the indulgence of a lie in; he not only didn’t have to be at rehearsal until noon but even more so because he was up late.

            But it was so worth it!

            The night before hadn’t finished until almost ten-thirty. After playing Enya, Thorin had moved on to other contemporary songs, including Loreena McKennitt’s _Dante’s Prayer_ , David Young’s _Bouree_ , and a few Clannad pieces he really liked.  Just as he finished, there was for the first time in a long while, a gentle clap. 

            Thorin immediately went to the window.  “Thank you,” he said, but he heard the creak of a window about to shut and he rushed out, “Won’t you at least tell me your name?” He hoped it didn’t sound too demanding or impertinent; or as desperate as it truly was.

            There was no sound for several long seconds, before he heard a soft male voice, barely audible, say, “Don’t you think secrets are fun?” The muted closing of the window and then the snap of the lock engaging followed it.

            Thorin sat back but he couldn’t help but smile; ‘B’ was a male. And if the voice, though low and from an unknown direction, was any indication, ‘B’ sounded gentle and kind with a little mirth mixed in for good measure; Thorin could well imagine it whispering in his ear.

            That last thought and the images it conjured up were what had Thorin up later still.

            As he lay in his bed, musing on ‘B’ and his voice, he wondered what it would be like to wake to that velvet whisper, spoken as someone warm and enticing snuggled into his chest.  To hear a soft, ‘Good morning’, or maybe ask what Thorin wanted for breakfast, perhaps urging him to get up ‘you lazy thing’ with a giggle only for Thorin to reach out and pull that someone to him and snuggle some more in the early morning sunshine.

            Thorin was going to have to take care of other business if he kept it up.

            Which he did, gladly.

            Rolling over, Thorin could see it was almost nine-thirty. Time to get moving. He got up, threw the bedspread over the bed and smoothed it out, took a nice long warm shower, and dressed comfortably.  Thorin got out his harp and checked the strings, tuning as he went.  It was rhythmic in a way and he always enjoyed this time; when it was just he and his harp, taking care of the instrument that represented so much of him.

            He recalled the first time in primary when his teacher brought out one of those little lap-harps.  It was simple and most of the kids thought it fun, but Thorin remembered being transfixed; one could make music just by touching a string!   He had rushed home that day and begged his mother for one; he had to have it.

            She laughed sweetly and immediately contacted the toy store; Thorin had one that very night.

            He never looked back.   From that little lap-harp, he moved on to the auto-harp.  Then this Uncle Groin gave him a lyre for Christmas when he was eight, and a year later, his mother’s sister, Aunt Maris, gave him a Celtic harp. He got his first ‘real’ harp at the age of ten; practicing in his mother’s private sitting room where she could not only watch over him but enjoy the music as well.  In his later teens, he came to love the electric harps, especially as he could move about and stand while playing.  In fact, that was his harp of choice at the moment, a Lyon and Healy Silhouette, in Jet Black.

            Now, as a professional, he was capable of playing all types. From huge concert grands, right down to his lyre, which he still had lovingly packed away, although he hadn’t played in years – and yes, he was perfectly aware that a lyre isn’t technically a harp but he loved it, so fuck off.

            It was ten when he finished up; he was just putting the kettle on for tea when there was a knock on his door.

            He wasn’t expecting anyone.  Well, not expecting but hoping.

            He stood there, just staring at the door handle.  Was his plea for ‘B’s name finally deemed enough to entice the man to reveal himself?  Or maybe the teasing about secrets was just that, a tease so that ‘B’ could surprise Thorin this morning?  Christ, should he change into something nicer?  He didn’t have time! Or maybe ‘B’ was married and it was the wife on the other side ready to rip Thorin a new one!   Fuck that would be embarrassing if—

            Another knock; more insistent this time.

            Shaking himself, Thorin took a deep breath, reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

            It so wasn’t ‘B’.

            “Fucking took you look enough,” Dwalin snarked, stepping inside.

            “What are you doing here?” Thorin said, irritated in his disappointment.

            “Can’t I pay my cousin a visit?”

            “No,” Thorin said but Dwalin just chuckled.  “I should tell the doorman not to let you in.”

            “Almost didn’t make it in,” Dwalin said.  “Nearly got run down by one of your neighbors on the front steps.”

            “What a shame,” Thorin said dryly.  “So, we’re back to the question of why you’re here.”

            Dwalin huffed out a sigh.  “Look,” he said, laying a large manila envelope on Thorin’s table. “I’ve been thinking about this creeper—”

            “Christ, Dwalin!”  Thorin was really reaching his limit.  “Back off.”

            “If you think I’m going let some … sodding … bloody … sneak, creep about my cousin, you’d better think again!”

            “I know you mean well, but it’s really none of your con—”

            “We’re family!  It is my concern!”

            This was not how he wanted his Saturday morning to go. “I have rehearsal in two hours; I don’t want to have this conversation now.”

            “Fine. Tonight then, we’ll sit down—”

            “No.   We have a huge wedding reception at six and we are booked for three hours.   I’m not coming back tonight, when I am dead tired, to talk about it either!”

            “Tomorrow then and I don’t give a shit if you're having tea with the fucking Queen!”

            Thorin resigned himself.  Maybe he should have Dis come over; he would not only have someone in his corner but she could control Dwalin like no one else.

            “Fine. Tomorrow at noon. You can take me to lunch.” The kettle went off and Thorin poured himself, and now Dwalin, a cuppa each.

            Dwalin looked like he just sucked a lemon.  “Why the hell should I have to take you to lunch?!”

            Thorin shrugged and threw a smirk at his cousin.  “Starving artist and all that.”

            Dwalin rolled his eyes, but Thorin noted that the man didn’t say no. Good.  If Dwalin was going to be a prick about ‘B’ then Thorin had every right to demand payment for it; lunch was a good trade-off.

            “Oh yeah,” Dwalin said picking up the envelope.  “That kid downstairs said to give you this.” He tossed the package at Thorin who had just enough time to catch it.

            “ _That kid_ ,” Thorin said, taking the large envelope.  ‘You mean the _doorman_?”

            Dwalin nodded.  “I have shoes older than him,” Dwalin drawled as he picked up his cup of tea.  “I think ‘kid’ is about right.”

            Thorin couldn’t argue with that.  A thought dawned on him; maybe he should ask the doorman!   Surely young Charlie knew everyone in the building, was it outside the realm of possibility that he might know—

            Thorin shot that down.  How would he go about asking in the first place? _Oh excuse me, can you tell me what male resident has a lovely voice, likes secrets and leaves anonymous food at people’s doors?_   Thorin seriously doubted that ‘B’ would appreciate that kind of investigation into his life.  Thorin had already dismissed using the mailboxes; it seemed like cheating in a way.

            “So,” Dwalin said, through a huge gulp of tea.  “What’s in the package?”

            Thorin shrugged, but when he turned it over, he stopped. “It’s from him.”

            Dwalin was all attention.  “From Creeper?”

            Thorin was going to kill his cousin.  “Stop calling him that.”  Thorin looked down at the envelope again and, clear as day, there was his last name written in ‘B’s cursive writing.

            “What’d he send you this time?”  Dwalin asked.

            Thorin opened the flap and out spilled about twenty smaller envelopes.   Most were letter sized, a few were note sized and a couple looked like cards.

            What the hell was going on?

            But Thorin quickly saw that the letters were all to him – THE HARPIST.

            He opened the first and nearly couldn’t breathe; _Your music has changed my life._   Thorin opened the next; _What a lovely way to end the day._   Thorin continued to open them; _Thank you, You have no idea, So lovely, Like music from a dream, My heart flutters like when I was a young girl._

            Thorin looked at Dwalin; unable to speak.  Dwalin was clearly perplexed, but he reached for a few of the opened letters and began to read.

            “They’re from people in the building,” Thorin said, finding his voice; he was overwhelmed. “People who have listened to me play.”

            Dwalin reached for one of the note sized ones.  It was beautifully embossed with someone’s initials, in flowing, cursive writing, on the front, cream on cream.  Dwalin opened it and read, his face relaxing and his eyes – was Thorin seeing things, were Dwalin’s eyes getting moist?

            “Listen to this,” Dwalin said softly, almost reverently.

           

            _My wife always had music on; records, tapes, CDs, the radio, it didn’t matter.  From sunrise to sunset she filled our flat with music. When she passed away six months ago, my world went silent and I could not bear to hear a single note. Even the birds would make me weep for what I had lost._

_Then, a few weeks ago, I heard you playing.  It was like music from heaven; as if she were speaking to me.  Now, thanks to you, I do not cry when I play her music, for I feel that she is with me once again._

_Thank you so much for bringing me my life back._

_Sincerely, Edward Longborne, Flat 703_

 

            “Jesus, Thorin,” Dwalin said, his voice thick.

            “They’re all letters of thanks,” Thorin said, trying to keep calm. But he knew who to was behind it all. “And he’s had something to do with this.”

            “You’re sure?” Dwalin asked.

            “He must,” Thorin said.  “Not only is it his writing on the outside of the envelope, but then none of these …” Thorin swept his hand over the small pile of envelopes, “None of these are from him.”

            “That doesn’t necessarily mean—”

            “He didn’t write one these,” Thorin said, “because he didn’t need to. I will bet you, he suggested it, or urged them, or asked them, but either way, he is behind this. I can feel it.” Thorin could and it was a warm, tendering feeling filing him.  “I have to meet him.”

            “Yeah,” Dwalin said.  “I think I want to as well.”

            Thorin didn’t like the sound of that.  “Dwalin, if you fuck with him—”

            “No,” Dwalin held up his hands.    “I didn’t mean it like that.  It's just …” Dwalin was so rarely at a loss for words.  “You really think he’s responsible?”

            Thorin thought about it hard.  “I can’t swear, but something in my gut says yes.”

            Dwalin nodded; he understood those gut feelings.  “So how are you going to do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Smoke him out as they say.”

            Thorin smiled slyly.  “I’ve already got an idea.”

           

\-----ooooo-----

 

            He was just about to go to bed when his house phone rang.

            _Who the hell would call at this hour?! It was almost eleven o’clock at night for heaven’s sake!_

            “Hello,” Bilbo said quietly.

            “So you do live,” Gandalf said dryly.

            “I beg your pardon?”  Bilbo was in a lovely mood after listening to Thorin play; Gandalf was putting a damper on that mood.

            “I've been texting you,” Gandalf groused, “which got me no response. I have since sent three emails, which also generated zero replies.  Can I guess you have your mobile turned off?”

            _Damn._   Bilbo was always forgetting to turn the damn phone back on after work.  “Well, that is why I still have a house phone.”  Bilbo didn’t hate having a smartphone but he was just not ready to give up the landline just yet. “If it was so urgent—”

            “It isn’t so much urgent as it is important.”

            “Why? What’s wrong?” Bilbo asked, confused.

            Gandalf took an audible breath.  “Your grandfather needs you.”

            “What happened?”

            “Nothing in particular, but he has been very … maudlin, and I think a visit from his favorite grandchild may help.”

            Bilbo knew he should have visited already but he had been putting it off because, well there was no other reason, despite Bilbo’s denials it would have meant a few nights without the company of Thorin playing for him. Well, not for him, really, Bilbo only wanted to believe that it was for him, just as Mrs. Edwards had said.

            “Are you free this weekend?”

            Bilbo was, but “Maybe I can come down _next_ weekend or something.”

            There was silence on the other end. 

            “Of course, “ Bilbo said, feeling cornered.  “I could catch the train first thing in the morning and head on down tomorrow.”

            “That would wonderful, Bilbo.”

            Bilbo nodded to himself; resigned.  He knew he should’ve before now and it was only going to be for a few days. He thought about writing a note for Thorin, explaining he was going away, but decided against it; Thorin may not care or think him very odd for telling him his plans when Bilbo hadn’t even confessed his name! 

            After a rather pitiful night sleep, Bilbo woke a little later than he had planned.  He quickly showered, dressed, made tea, straightened up his flat – he hated coming home to a mess – and then called Ori.

            There was no answer.

            It took two tries before a very sleepy Ori answered his phone. “Whatever it is, it had better involve an ambulance or blood.”

            Bilbo giggled.  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

            “Why are you calling me this early on a Saturday?”

            “I’m leaving today for Hobbiton.”

            That apparently got Ori’s full attention.  “What happened?”

            Ori sounded very concerned and it touched Bilbo to hear it. “Nothing.  My grandfather is just not feeling well and my mum’s old friend thinks a visit from me would help him along.”

            “What can I do to help?”  Really, Bilbo loved his friend so much.

            “I hope to be back by Monday morning,” Bilbo said, gathering his bag and putting by the front door.  “However, I have a feeling I may end up staying a few days beyond that.”

            “Right.”

            “I have those edits that are due and I was wondering if you could swing by my place later on and pick them up, just in case I don’t make it back to work by the beginning of the week.”

            “Sure thing.  Where are they?”

            “I’ll put them on the table for you to find.”

            “Gotcha.”

            “Thank you, Ori.  I owe you.”

            “You don’t owe me a thing,” Ori said with a yawn.  “Well, maybe dinner.”

            Bilbo laughed at that.  “Done. When I get back, dinner will be on me.”

            After working out the details, Bilbo realized he was running late. Sure there was a train almost every hour, but still, he didn’t want to dawdle.

            As he got on the lift he froze!  There were letters posted all over the lift addressed to ‘The Harpist!’   Clearly, Mrs. Edwards had taken his advice and everyone that had been listening to Thorin wrote letters or cards or notes.  Thrilled as he was, he thought Thorin might be a bit overwhelmed.  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a manila envelope that held some paperwork he was going to leave at Bag End, emptied it, and then proceeded to pull all the letters for Thorin off the lift wall and place it in the larger envelope. Getting out a Sharpie, he wrote ‘Durin’ on the front of the envelope.

            “Good morning, Charlie,” Bilbo said, as he moved through the lobby.

            “Good morning, Mr. Baggins,” the said with a smile.  “Heading out for some fun?”

            “No, actually,” Bilbo answered.  “I’m heading home for the weekend; my grandfather’s not well.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that,” Charlie said.  “Especially so soon after—” Charlie cut himself off and looked horrified at his slip; he knew about Bilbo’s mother.

            “It’s all right, Charlie,” Bilbo said softly.  It was kind of the boy to be so considerate but Bilbo didn’t want him to feel bad; there was nothing to feel badly about. “And yes, it’s been very hard for my grandfather.”

            Charlie nodded but said no more.

            “By the way,” Bilbo said, holding out the envelope.  “This was in the lift … I, uhm … I think it’s for Mr. Durin in 502.”

            “Yeah, sure.”  Charlie placed it behind the desk for safekeeping.  “Should I tell him you found it?”

            “NO!” Bilbo shouted, startling the poor boy. “Sorry.  I … I just mean … no, there’s no reason for him to know … me … I mean, he _doesn’t_ know me … I mean, we haven’t been formally introduced and he might think it odd or … something.”

            Charlie looked confused but nodded, shrugged and said, “Sure thing, Mr. Baggins.”

            Bilbo hurried out the door and rushed down the steps; right into a walking wall. He was almost thrown to the ground but the guy was quick.

            “Watch it there,” The guy said good-naturedly.

            “I’m so sorry,” Bilbo said, look up at the bald-headed man he’d just ran into. “I’m in a rush and didn’t see you.”

            “That’s pretty obvious,” the guy quipped, looking Bilbo over quickly. “You all right?”

            “Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Bilbo said, straightening everything out and repositioning his saddlebag as he made to leave. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

            “No harm, no foul,” the burly man laughed as Bilbo headed towards to tube.

            It wasn’t that far to the station and before he knew it, he was on the train to Bree.  The hour and ten-minute ride wasn’t bad but Bilbo wasn’t sure what to expect. Was Granddad more than maudlin and Gandalf just not saying?  That seemed unlikely as Gandalf was not one to lie; riddles, yes.  Outright lies, no.  Was Bilbo walking into another situation where he would just make it on time to say good-bye and then watch his grandfather die?  Again, he doubted that; Gandalf would have said. Hell, his aunts would have been on him if that was the case.

            No, Bilbo steadied himself.  His family weren’t bad people but they were all so involved with their own lives they seemed to have forgotten that Granddad needed them more now than ever. His mother always made excuses for her sibling’s non-involvement and as she had always been close to Granddad Took, it was never a big deal.  But this past month with her gone, clearly no one else was stepping into her shoes and it was falling to Bilbo to do so.

            So be it. 

            What truly concerned him was the house.  He’d not been back inside since before Belladonna had passed; he had stayed with his cousin Drogo and his wife Primula during the funeral. Now he was going to have to go back to Bag End; alone.  What would it be like? No Belladonna humming to herself in the kitchen. No Belladonna and Gandalf chatting and gossiping in the living room over tea.  No fire in the hearth to warm the place.  No telly or radio on.

            Just silence.

            Would the place be as cold and empty as he feared; or would he feel her presence there and be comforted?

            Stepping out of the station at Bree, he was greeted by the sight of Gandalf, leaning back against the side of his steely grey, nineteen-sixty-two Jaguar Mark II.

            “Bilbo Baggins!” Gandalf called out, coming to give Bilbo an all-enclosing hug. “As I live and breathe.”

            “It’s good to see you, too,” Bilbo said, with a smile and returning the hug. It was good to see the man; Bilbo had grown up around the eccentric but kind man.  “How is Granddad?”

            Gandalf took Bilbo’s bag and placed it in the boot.  “He is … coping.  However, I have not told him you’re coming.”

            “Didn't want him to know you had to pressure me?” Bilbo said, feeling a little guilty because Gandalf had to just that.

            But Gandalf shook his head.  “No. I think he would more than understand your reluctance.  It is just that I think a surprise would be good for him.”

            Bilbo nodded.  “It will be good to see him.” Bilbo did love his grandfather very much.  He really did miss him.

            As the pulled out of the station, Bilbo couldn’t help but think of Thorin. He wondered what Thorin was doing today? Was he at home, relaxing after the previous nights ‘concert?’  Was he maybe sitting down right now and practicing?  Bilbo could almost hear the gentle plucking of Thorin’s harp, floating through his window.  Bilbo couldn’t help by wonder what Thorin would say if he ever found out Bilbo’s daydreams and thoughts of him?  He was perfectly aware he was being ridiculous.  He didn’t care.

            Of course, he was also aware that Gandalf was sneaking sideways looks at him.

            “Is there something wrong?” Bilbo asked, amused.  He knew when Gandalf was up to something. The man could be sneaky but that didn’t mean Bilbo hadn’t learned to read the signs.

            “There is something different about you.”

            “No there’s not.”

            “Yes. Yes, there is.  There is a … twinkle in your eyes I haven’t seen in a long time.”

            Bilbo rolled said eyes.  “My eyes are not … twinkling.  You’re just going more insane.”

            Gandalf laughed at that.  “Possibly, but I still insist there is something about you.”

            “I can’t imagine—”

            “There’s someone in your life.”

            Bilbo almost choked on his own saliva.  “I assure you—”

            “It won’t work, Bilbo Baggins.  There is someone occupying your thoughts; I know it.”

            _Fuck me._ Bilbo should have known. “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “Bilbo …” Gandalf drawled slowly.

            Bilbo realized he was on the losing side of this.  “All right.  There is … there is someone.”

            Gandalf smiled in triumph.  “Care to share?”

            _Not really._ “To be frank, we actually haven’t met yet.”

            “I beg your pardon?”

            “He’s a musician and … and I’ve been listening to him play every night. We’ve exchanged some letters back and forth but I haven’t told him my name—”

            “Why ever not?!”

            “—and I only found out his name recently.”

            “Did a bit of snooping, did you?”

            Bilbo shook his head.  “Are you ever not going to be able to read my mind?!”

            “No,” Gandalf said honestly.  “So you might as well fill me on the whole story.”          

            Bilbo sighed.  He wouldn’t tell all the details but he would tell the tale.  “It started the night I got back from … from Mum’s funeral.”

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            “He must have gotten the letters,” Mrs. Thomason.  “When I came down in the lift earlier, they were all gone.”

            “I hope he didn’t mind,” Mrs. Edwards said.

            “I can’t imagine that he would,” Mr. Longborne stated. “Frankly, I think the letters were the least we could do for him.”

            “I have to agree,” Mrs. Thomason said.

            The three old friends continued to chat as they got their mail and headed to the lift.  When the doors opened they were surprised by a large poster hung on the back wall of the lift, which read.

 

TO THE RESIDENTS OF CHAWTON COURT

FROM THORIN DURIN, THE HARPIST

PLEASE JOIN ME IN THE PARTY HALL

TOMORROW, SUNDAY, AT 4 PM

FOR A FREE CONCERT

AS A WAY TO SAY THANK YOU

FOR ALL YOUR KIND WISHES.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Concerto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CONCERTO - The classical concerto usually consisted of several movements
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin employs all his talent to find out who the elusive 'B' really is ... he finds out a bit more than he planned

* * *

 

 

            “So you think this concert will work?” Dis said, taking a sip of Pierre.  When Thorin had called and asked her to join him and Dwalin for Sunday lunch, she was more than happy to meet them; being cooped up with her two little monsters was enough to drive any mother to flee.

            “I hope so at any rate,” Thorin replied.  “Although Dwalin wants to flay the guy open.”

            “I never said that!” Dwalin retorted.  “And I’ve … revised my opinion a bit.”

            “How gracious of you,” Dis said dryly and motioned for the waiter. “Could I have another Pierre, please?” She looked over at the two men with her; clearly wanting to know if they needed anything else.

            “I’ll have another water too,” Thorin said.  Even though this afternoon's 'concert' was a small gathering, he was sticking to water and light food before his performance.

            “I’ll have another Fuller’s,” Dwalin said, downing the bottle he currently had on the table.

            “Personally,” Dis said, as the waiter walked off, “I think Thorin’s idea is brilliant. It not only shows gratitude for the kind words of the others, but I can’t imagine what would keep his mysterious admirer away.”

            “That’s my hope anyway,” Thorin said, finishing his salad.

            “He hasn’t been very forthcoming so far,” Dwalin pointed out. “He may not be there.”

            “I doubt it,” Dis said.  “Unless there was a very good reason.”

            “What reason could keep him away,” Dwalin argued, “except that he is scared or he is just playing a game with Thorin’s emotions.”

            “He has no idea of my feelings,” Thorin said and realized that he just gave himself away.  “I mean, there hasn’t been anything between us, so emotions play no part.”

            Dis wasn’t buying.  “You want there to be feelings between you.”

            Thorin avoided his sister’s gaze.  “I never said that.”

            “You didn’t have to,” Dis said quietly, leaning forward in her chair. “Thorin, there is nothing wrong with hoping for more.”

            Thorin shook his head.  “I’m being a fool.”

            “I’ll agree to that,” Dwalin said as the waiter returned with their drinks. “Getting all gushy over some creeper.”

            “Stop. Calling him. THAT!”  Thorin hissed out.

            “While I admit,” Dis said firmly, “that while his actions up to now have seemed odd, I am convinced he has a good reason and that he is not playing a game.”

            “How can you be so sure?” Dwalin demanded.

            Dis just gave him a cocked eyebrow and said nothing. Thorin wanted to laugh; she’s sure because she’s Dis and that is all that needs to be said.

            “Look,” Thorin said, getting up and grabbing his bottled water to take with him. “I’ve got to get going.” It was one p.m. now; he only had three hours until his performance.

            “Good luck, darling,” Dis said with a smile.  “I’d offer to come, but I think this is one time you would prefer no family there.”

            Thorin leaned down and planted a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “How right you are.”

            They both laughed and Thorin said good-bye to Dwalin as he turned to go.

            “This concert better pay off,” Dwalin shouted at Thorin's back but it was all in good fun.

            Dis and Dwalin were silent for a minute, both picking at the remains of their lunch and drinks.  However, Dis wasn’t about to let something go.

            “So tell me,” Dis said casually.  “What of your young man?”

            Dwalin was taking a swig of ale at the time and almost spit it out.

            Dis took that as confirmation.

            “What young man?”  Dwalin asked, finally able to speak again.

            “The one written all over your face,” Dis said softly, taking a dainty sip of her water.  “It’s clear you’ve met someone.”

            Dwalin shook his head.  _Fucking Dis._   “We ran into each other, that’s it.  There isn’t anything going on.”

            “But you want there to be, don’t you?”

            Dwalin shook his head; he couldn’t deny that.  “Maybe.”

            “Come on.  ‘Fess up.”

            Dwalin sighed.  “I was leaving Thorn’s flat yesterday …”

 

            _Dwalin had to admit that his attitude towards the mysterious ‘B’ was changing; it was hard to fight against a package of thank you letters.  If Thorin was right, and it certainly seemed like he was, ‘B’ had gone through a great deal of trouble just for Thorin’s benefit. That went a long way in Dwalin’s book. Maybe Thorin was also right that Dwalin was only being paranoid. Dwalin couldn’t argue with that either._

_So lost in his thoughts, he stepped off the lift and right into a shorter man. Christ, was he always going to be run over by someone every time he came to see …_

_The guy was fucking hot! Ginger hair, slender, and when Dwalin looked at the guy he was treated to a pair of brown, doe eyes that were beautiful._

_“Terribly sorry,” Dwalin said, unaware of the dorky smile on his face told that he was anything but sorry._

_The guy looked Dwalin up and down like a wolf in sheep’s clothing; the look in those brown eyes was far from innocent.  “Trust me,” the ginger said, “the pleasure’s all mine.”_

_What? Pleasure?  “Excuse me?”  Dwalin stammered out._

_The guy just cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t seem the clueless type. You heard me.” With the guy giggled and turned for the lifts._

_“Wait!” Dwalin called. “You sure you’re … you’re okay?” Dwalin didn’t want it to end that quickly._

_The guy slowly turned around and wore a rather impish smile.  “Well, to tell you the truth,” the guy said, coming back to stand in front of Dwalin. “I would be better with dinner, or at least a few drinks.”_

_Dwalin was impressed, the kid was smooth.  “Would you now?”_

_The guy just smiled broader and nodded, not the least bit embarrassed._

_Dwalin laughed aloud. “I don’t even know—”_

_“Ori,” the guy said and stuck out a hand for Dwalin to shake._

_Dwalin noted that the hand was soft but not weak; he could well imagine it on other parts of his body. “Dwalin.  And has anyone ever told you, you have beautiful eyes?”_

_Ori nodded. “Of course.  But they're nothing compared to my arse.”_

_Dwalin’s surprised look made Ori laugh again and before Dwalin could do more than gape, Ori turned around, giving Dwalin a good view of said fine arse, pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket, and wrote furiously on it._

_“Here,” Ori handed the paper over to Dwalin.  “If you ever want to explore what else I have that you might find beautiful; call me.”_

_Dwalin looked down at Ori’s number in his hand for a second and when he looked up Ori was getting onto the lift, pressing the button.  “When should I call you?” Dwalin called out, cheekily._

_“Day or night,” Ori said with a wink just as the lift doors closed._

_Oh, yeah. Dwalin had many thoughts of nights with Ori already dancing in his head.  In fact, those thoughts sudden made it a little hard to walk._

            “You’re kidding me!” Dis said.

            Dwalin shook his head.  “It was … well, _he_ was, amazing.”

            “I just can’t believe it.”

            “I’m not lying!  It really happened.”

            “No, I mean, why would a cute guy go for an ugly mug like you!”

            “Fuck you.”

            Dis just laughed that off.  “So … have you called?”

            Dwalin sighed.  “Not yet.”    

            “Why ever not?  You think some cute little ginger’s going to come along every day?”

            “That’s just it,” Dwalin said, turning a bit serious.  “He isn’t your average, everyday bloke.  He was … he was really special.”

            “And that makes you unsure?”

            Dwalin nodded.  It was true.

            “And maybe now you can understand why ‘B’ has been so reluctant to give Thorin his name.”

            Dwalin was shocked for a moment; he hadn’t thought about it like that. He looked at Dis who now wore a rather smug look on her face as she drank her water.

            “Do as Thorin says,” Dis said, turning serious herself. “Cut them some slack.”

            Yeah. He needed to.

            “And give Ori a call.”

            “You think I should?  Really?”

            Dis leaned forward quickly, grabbed Dwalin’s phone, ignored his ‘HEY!’, pulled up his contacts, found that – indeed – Dwalin had already put Ori in his phone, and proceeded to type out a quick text message.

            Dwalin grabbed the phone back.  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

            “Just helping things along.”

            “Meddling more like it!”

            Suddenly Dwalin’s mobile chimed; new text message.  He looked down at the screen:

 

**_Better late than never_ **

**_I was hoping to hear from you last night_ **

****

            Dis got up from the table, picked up the cheque, and touched Dwalin’s arm to get his attention.  “Lunch is on me. Enjoy your evening.” She winked at him before planting a kiss on his bald head and leaving.

            Dwalin looked back at his mobile, took a breath and replied.

 

_Sorry got detained last night._

**_That’s okay it’s called life_ **

**_It gets in the way_ **

****

_Thanks_

_You free this evening?_

**_Not anymore_ **

**_Where are you taking us?_ **

****

_Ministry of Sound?_

**_I’ll get out my dancing shoes_ **

****

_I don’t really dance_

_I just go for the music and drinks_

**_Really? No dancing?_ **

**_What about the horizontal kind_ **

****

_Shit you sure do cut to the chase_

_You’re a bit naughty aren’t you_

**_I can be_ **

**_With the right kind of guy_ **

****

_Am I the right kind of guy_

****

**_What do you think_ **

 

_Guess you’ll decide that tonight_

**_I decided that yesterday_ **

**_See you later_ **

**_;)_ **

****

            Like Dis suggested, Dwalin had every intention of enjoying his evening. And maybe tomorrow morning as well.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            When Thorin walked into the Party Hall at three-forty, he was surprised by what he found. A few people were already there and they had set a chair up for him at the front, had a several rows of chairs arranged already, and there were two long tables off to one side were a handful of ladies, both young and older, were setting out plates of biscuits and cakes, finger sandwiches and even fruits and sweeties.  Someone had already put up out two electric kettles for tea and there was a coffee maker brewing coffee.

            “There he is!” one of the elderly ladies said and Thorin found himself greeted by those in the room.

            Thorin was a bit humbled and embarrassed.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about—”

            “Of course you didn’t, dear,” said another older lady. “We all thought that since we were going to be together, we might as well make a little party out of it!”

            Most of the room laughed at that and Thorin couldn’t help but smile. He started setting up but every time the door opened, he looked up; wondering if it was ‘B.’

            “Are you alright, dear?” a lady, a Mrs. Edwards, asked.

            “Uhm … yes,” Thorin said, going back to tuning and trying not to turn at every person that walked in.  “I’m … fine.”

            “You just seem nervous,” Mrs. Edwards said softly, clearly concerned.

            “I’m always … nervous, before uhm … a … a performance.”

            The lady smiled and it was very sweet.  “We all know you'll be fine.”

            “Thank you,” Thorin said as Mrs. Edwards moved off.

            Thorin reminded himself that just because ‘B’ sounded young didn’t mean he was young.  He could be any man in the house and by the time the concert started, there were about forty-five people there, over a third of them men.  He knew that some people where family of residents and didn’t actually live in the building and that got him thinking; was ‘B’ someone staying with a resident? Or maybe house sitting and didn’t live there, or worse, didn’t even live in London?

            The clock struck four and everyone had taken their seat; Thorin realized that the time had come.

            “I want to thank you all for coming,” Thorin said, standing at the front. “I can’t tell you what your letters and notes have meant to me.”

            “And your music to us,” A gentleman called back.

            “Yes, indeed,” a lady said and the entire room applauded at her words.

            Thorin could only smile; it was a bit much to take in.

            When the clapping stopped, he sat down, plunk a few strings and then let the music carry him. He played all the pieces he could remember playing over the last few weeks; for sure all the ones that he had played for ‘B.’  He tried to mix the contemporary music with the classical, alternating between the livelier pieces and the more quiet, somber ones.  After each song, his little audience applauded and the session seemed to move along without any sense of time or lag; it was their time together, their small world.  They were participants in the music, Thorin’s admirers giving him their energy as much as he was giving out of his to them.  Before he knew it, it was over and the clock struck five-twenty-two.

            Afterwards, more food was brought out and everyone seemed in no rush to leave. There were a few children there and they peppered him with questions, more thanks were given to him; to the point that he thought his blush might never leave his face.  He met the residents who had sent him letters, residents who had heard of his music but couldn’t hear it directly.

            “I think it was a tremendous success,” a Mrs. Thomason said.

            “I agree,” said Mr. Longborne.   “We can’t thank you enough, Thorin.”

            “You’re all so welcome, but ...” Thorin paused.  “It’s really me that should be thanking you.”

            “Nonsense,” Mrs. Edwards insisted.  “You have given us so much joy.”

            “I’m very glad to hear that,” Thorin said.   No one confessed to being his mysterious admirer and he was beginning to believe what Dwalin had said; maybe it was a game? He couldn’t believe that. He looked around again, but there none of the men in the room seemed to stand out—

            “Are you looking for someone?” Mrs. Edwards asked.

            “Ah, no ... not at all,” Thorin smiled, hoping it covered his disappointment.

            “Who could _possibly_ be missing?” Mr. Longborne quipped.  “I think everyone in the building is here!  Well, except for Mr. and Mrs. Bennett, who are in Italy, and that lady who’s in the hospital … what is her name?”

            “Compton, Lillian Compton,” Mrs. Thomas said.   “She should be out in a few days.”

            “That’s good to hear,” Mr. Longborne said.

            “Oh and that young chap on the sixth floor,” Mrs. Edwards said offhandedly as she took a sip of tea.

            Thorin stilled at her words.  “The sixth floor?”  Thorin slowly breathed in and out to keep his excitement in check.

            “Who’s that?” Mrs. Thomason asked her friend.

            “The one that asked after you,” Mrs. Edwards replied.

            “Oh, yes,” Mrs. Thomason looked confused.  “Why can’t I remember his name?”

            “Wasn’t he the one that suggested we write?” Mr. Longborne asked.

            Thorin held his breath; this was it, wasn't it?!

            “That’s right!” Mrs. Edwards nodded. 

            “You … wouldn’t happen to know his name,” Thorin said, his voice sounding tight even to him. 

            Mrs. Edwards seemed to think very hard but then shook her head. “It just escapes me.”

            Thorin sighed in his frustration but wondered what else do or say to trigger Mrs. Edward's memory.  However, he needn't have worried.

            “Oh, Charles!” Mrs. Edwards called out.  The young doorman was one of the few young men in the room and he came over when he heard his name.  “Charles … do you remember the young man that walked out with me the other day?”

            Charlie nodded.  “Mr. Baggins,” Charlie said with a smile.

            “That’s it!” Mrs. Edwards looked so pleased.

            “What a lovely name,” Mrs. Thomason stated.

            “Sounds like a proper English name,” Mr. Longborne joked and he and his friends laughed.

            None of them noticed the rather dreamy look of relief on Thorin’s face. “Do you happen to know his first name, Charlie?” Thorin asked.

            “Bilbo.”

            _Bilbo Baggins.  B and B._ Thorin almost laughed; seems ‘B’ only need to give him one initial!  Thorin was suddenly lost in thoughts of whispering Bilbo’s name in the dark of the night and hearing his own name whispered back in Bilbo’s velvet voice.

            “I’m surprised he isn’t here tonight,” Mrs. Edwards commented.

            “Oh he left yesterday,” Charlie said.

            That brought Thorin out of his dreams.  “Left?”

            Charlie nodded.  “Headed home.  Apparently, his grandfather isn’t doing well.”

            “Oh no,” Mrs. Thomason fretted.

            “I hope it’s nothing serious,” Mr. Longborne said quietly.

            Thorin had a rush of anger; Thorin wasn’t there for him!  It was irrational, and he knew it, but Thorin felt a little guilty in that here he’d made this whole scenario about himself, and Bilbo was possibly having problems. 

            “I think the old man is just very depressed,” Charlie whispered loudly.

            “Why do you say that?”  Thorin asked. He had to know.

            “Well …” Charlie looked around as if making sure no one could hear; probably was.  “Mr. Baggins indicated that his grandfather was having trouble coping … and all.  Not surprising seeing how his daughter, Mr. Baggins’ mother, was killed by a drunk driver almost a month ago.”

            The elderly woman both gasped and Mr. Longborne seemed visually pained to hear the news.  Thorin was sick himself. All this time, Bilbo had been dealing with such grief and yet had gone out of his way to cook for Thorin and have the neighbors write and –

            Thorin remembered the first note he’d received from Bilbo;

 

_‘You have helped me through a most difficult time in my life; a time when I thought the world cold and devoid of beauty’_

            “Do you know when he gets back?” Thorin asked.  The bile of his guilt hanging in this throat.

            Charlie shook his head.  “He didn’t say.”

            Thorin nodded.  The time for notes and letters was over.  Starting tomorrow and every day thereafter, Thorin was going to march himself up to the sixth floor and knock on Bilbo’s door.   He was going to give the man who’d given so much to him a proper thank you. And by God, he’d make sure to show Bilbo Baggins that there was more to life than grief and heartache.

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Ritenuto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RITENUTO - (Italian: held back) directs a player to slow down at once.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Bilbo's life comes to a screeching halt.

* * *

 

           The care home his grandfather lived in was a lovely Georgian building. High ceilings and decorative moldings, tall thin windows and beautifully worn rugs, it was like someone’s home rather than a facility.  Of course, as Bilbo reminded himself, it probably had been and that was the whole point.

            As he and Gandalf made their way through the halls, Bilbo’s guilt sat coiled in his stomach; he really had taken far too long to come for a visit. He knew that Grandpa Took wanted to see him, but – well, Bilbo had no real good excuse.  Sure he swore it was too hard to come home, too much to be in Bag End, and far too difficult to be away from work; none of those excuses were untrue.  However, if he was to be totally honest, while his excuses were valid to a degree, none were the real reason; he hadn’t wanted to be too far from Thorin. Thorin had come to make his life seem worth living.  That _was_ the truth. As long as he stayed in London and had Thorin and his music, he could forget everything else.  Like living in a dream, nothing else mattered.

            But one couldn’t live in a dream forever.

            “Bilbo!”

            Bilbo smiled as his grandfather rush over to him; well, as quickly as an elderly man could rush with a cane.

            “I’m so happy to see you, my boy!” Gerontius Took pulled Bilbo into a, surprisingly strong, hug which Bilbo returned gladly.

            “It’s wonderful to see you, Grandpa.”

            “When did you arrive?”  Gerontius asked.

            “I’m literally off the train,” Bilbo answered.  “Gandalf was kind enough to pick me up at the station.”

            “And the old codger didn’t see fit to tell me about it,” Gerontius commented, giving Gandalf a narrowed, but good-natured look. 

            “Not telling is the whole point of a surprise,” Gandalf stated dryly but could not hold back his own smile.

            “We just finished lunch,” Gerontius said, “but I am sure we could get you something if you are hungry.”

            “I’m fine,” Bilbo said; he really was.  “I want to spend time with you.  How are you feeling?”

            Gerontius smiled, but his sadness was easily seen.  “I’m getting by, my boy.”

            “I know what you mean,” Bilbo said softly.

            Turning the conversation to other subjects, Gerontius led Bilbo to a quiet corner of what was called ‘The Day Room.’  Gandalf sat nearby but picked up the paper and read, leaving Bilbo and Gerontius to visit.  They talked of Gerontius’ activities at the facility; having far more to say about what he didn’t like than what he did.  Bilbo asked about his cousins and, of course, Gerontius had no end of opinions about his children and grandchildren.  All seemed so busy with work and charities, school and goals; the Tooks were always very driven. But Bilbo could tell that phone calls and cards from the others weren’t enough for his grandfather; despite the elderly man’s pride.  Belladonna had been the only one that didn’t need to work, thanks to his late father’s investments.  But Bilbo seemed the only grandchild that had a job that, in essence, could easily be done from home.  It was hard for Bilbo not to feel a little bitter and resentful that his cousins has so effectively cut Gerontius out of their lives simply because the elderly man couldn’t keep up.

            Throughout the conversation, Bilbo noticed that a few of the nurses and staff would look over and give him a hard look.  In fact, one aide came by and sweetly asked Gerontius if he wanted anything. But when the girl went to leave she shot Bilbo a narrowed, almost accusatory glare before turning away. No one said a word, but Bilbo could only assume they blamed him for not visiting enough or sooner. 

            He’d take that blame.

            When asked, Bilbo spoke of his life in London, his job editing for a large publishing company, and even of Ori, who Gerontius had met a few times and liked a great deal.  One thing that Bilbo didn’t bring up was Thorin; of course he hadn't even told Gandalf Thorin's name but he knew that the old professor believed that Bilbo should tell Gerontius at least the basics.  He could see Gandalf trying to catch his eye and get him to talk but Bilbo steadfastly ignored him.

            Of course, with Gerontius Took, Bilbo’s social life was bound to come up in some way or another.

            “Are you seeing anyone?” Gerontius asked with wicked little smile.

            Bilbo smiled and sighed; his grandfather did love meddle if he could. “No.  I’m not seeing anyone.”

            “Really?” Gerontius seemed confused. “You have so much going for you and you are very handsome.  You should have a line out your door.”

            Bilbo had to laugh at that.  “It doesn’t quite work that way, Grandpa.”

            “Maybe not,” Gerontius shrugged and winked at his grandson. “But do you try and meet people? I’m sure there are places—”

            “There are,” Bilbo interjected.  “But bars and clubs aren’t really for me.”

            “No doubt,” Gerontius said, “But what about book clubs or reading groups or some other gatherings that are more to your liking?  You can’t keep yourself cooped up all that time!”

            Bilbo rather liked being cooped up, especially at nighttime. “I do get out, with Ori, now and then, but I like being at home.  It doesn’t bother me.”

            Gerontius looked a little sad, and said quietly, “I just don’t want to see you end up alone, Bilbo.”

            “I’m not alone, Grandpa,” Bilbo said, putting an arm around his grandfather and giving the man a one-arm hug.  “I’m with myself.”

            They all laughed at that.  “I don’t think that is quite what your grandfather meant,” Gandalf said.

            “Indeed,” Gerontius said.  “Your gran, God rest her soul, and I had a wonderful life together.  Your parents were happy together.  I just want to see you blessed with the same.”

            Bilbo smiled.  Yes, he would love that too, but I just never worked at for him.  “I’m fine, Grandpa.  And … someday, who knows … maybe it will happen.”

            “If you sit around and wait,” Gerontius said, "someday may never come.  You need to chase it.”

            Bilbo nodded but said nothing else.  What could he say?  The only person he was even remotely interested in was a man he hadn’t even formally met and who, in all likelihood, would probably have zero interest in a quiet, bookish type. Thorin probably had beautiful women and handsome men at his beck and call and he moved in circles that were far removed from the small, little world of Bilbo Baggins. 

            They stayed the rest of the afternoon, and even had tea with Gerontius. The elderly man was disappointed when Bilbo announced that it was time for him to go, but assured his grandfather that he would be in town for longer than the weekend – any thought of returning to London on Monday quite out of the question at that point – and promised to return the next day, Sunday, to see him.

            It was as he and Gandalf were leaving that they ran into the Administrator of the facility.

            “It was so wonder of you to visit,” the woman, Sybil Ross, said. “He speaks of you often.”

            Bilbo smiled and felt guilty again.  “I’ve been meaning to make it back before now, but …”

            “He understands,” Sybil said kindly.  “Your mother’s death has been hard on both of you.”

            Bilbo nodded; it was a given really.  “I do want to thank you for taking such good care of him. He really seems to enjoy it here and he appears happy.”

            “We like to think so,” Sybil stated.  “Of course, he doesn’t really need to be here …”

            “What do you mean?”  Where they going to discharge him?  Bilbo was shocked.

            Sybil seemed to realize what she said.  “Oh, nothing bad, mind you!  He’s fine and you’re right, he seems happy, and—”

            “No,” Bilbo wasn’t letting her off the hook that easily. “You mean something by that. What is it?”

            Sybil glanced at Gandalf, who avoided Bilbo's look when the younger man turned to him.  What was going on?

            “Just tell me the truth,” Bilbo said quietly but firmly.

            Sybil sighed.  “We weren't going to say anything.  Your grandfather actually asked us not to tell you.”

            “Tell me what?”  Bilbo was getting a little annoyed, and scared.  “If there is something wrong, then—”

            “There's nothing wrong, per se,” Sybil said.  “It’s just that … your grandfather doesn’t actually need to be here.”

            “You said that before, but what do you _mean_ by it?”

            “Only that he is very spry and cognitively aware for a man of his age,” Sybil said.  “He barely needs us to assist him with his ADLs.”

            “ADLs?” Bilbo felt like he should know that acronym.

            “Activities of Daily Living,” Sybil stated.  “The basic, every day things; dressing, bathing, combing his hair, brushing his teeth, eating, etc.  He needs basic set up but beyond that he is very independent.  In fact, if you ask me, I could see him living another ten years or more.”

            Bilbo was taken aback.  “If he is so capable, why didn’t one of my cousins or aunts or uncles take him home?”

            “They are all so busy with they lives,” Sybil said honestly. “That was the whole reason he came here in the first place.”

            “Did my mother know that?”

            Sybil swallowed, glanced at Gandalf, and then said, “Yes. She was more than aware.”

            “ _More than aware_ ,” Bilbo repeated, feeling a little bitter that he was not informed. But something seemed – _off_ \- with that phrase.  “What else are you not telling me?”

            Sybil sighed again, looking very reluctant to continue.  However, she finally confessed, “Your mother was in the process of having your grandfather discharged to her care when she was killed; she planned on taking him home to live with her.”

            Bilbo really felt guilty now.  No wonder his grandfather had been so upset, not only had he lost his daughter, but he lost his chance to live out a normal life.  It was now clear why the staff had been giving Bilbo hard looks, they probably saw him as giving up Belladonna’s plans and abandoning his grandfather. But Bilbo had no idea.

            “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!”  Bilbo demanded.

            “Your grandfather didn’t want you to know,” Sybil said.

            “Why?”

            “He felt that if we told you,” Gandalf added, “you might feel obligated to carry out your mother’s plans; he stated that he didn’t want to burden you with caring for an old man.”

            “But he’s my grandfather!” Bilbo would _never_ have felt burdened.

            “Be that as it may,” Gandalf said quietly.  “He didn't want to see you unhappy.”

            “Too late!” Bilbo said angrily.  “And I'm more than unhappy, I'm mad, because no one told me the truth!”  There was really only one way to proceed at this point. “I’d like to see the paperwork my mother was completing?”

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            The drive from the care home was quick, and before Bilbo knew it, Gandalf was dropping him off in front of Bag End.  Bilbo had never told Gandalf his fears of coming back to the house; that he had actively avoided even seeing the place.  However, like so much else, Bilbo didn’t really need to tell Gandalf a thing; the man already knew.

            “Take your time, Bilbo,” Gandalf said gently.  “You don’t need to rush.”

            Bilbo nodded, a little absentmindedly as he got out of the old Jag. So intent on staring at the house, he was barely aware of Gandalf driving off.

            The house stood serene in the early evening light.  Granted, it had only been a month since - well, since anyone lived there, but his dreams had envisioned the yard and flowers overgrown and wild, the stone walkway cluttered with leaves or debris, the windows covered in fine grime – something, _anything_ – to give some indication that Belladonna was gone.  However, everything was as his mother always had it, neat and trim; he suspected Hamfast Gamgee from next door had something to do with that.

            And Bag End seemed, not so much forlorn but sleeping. Like a spell from a fairy tale, the house seemed to be sitting there, waiting for a charming prince to awaken it with a kiss. 

            As he unlocked the front door, there was not a sound save for the faint creak for the door hinges.  Out of habit, he almost called out that he was home, but he bit it back at the last second.

            Setting his bag down in the foyer, Bilbo moved slowly through the house. The downstairs interior was as neat and tidy as the outside.  There wasn’t a single book, plump pillow, dish or cup, out of place.  Only two things were odd.  First, the drapes were all closed – his mother always had them open, and two, where there had been a short hallway in the back to the two ground floor guest rooms, there now was an unpainted, wide wooden door.  Opening it, Bilbo found that the two guest rooms had been combined into one large one and the bathroom had been expanded so that there would be enough room in case someone living there used a wheelchair – that was evident in the very wide doors and seamless transitions between hallway, room and bathroom floors.  Judging from looks, it seemed that only painting and cleanup were required; construction appeared complete.

            Moving to the upstairs, the rooms there were also neat and clean, not a speck of dust anywhere.  Again, Bilbo suspected the Gamgee’s; Belle had always been more than happy to assist Belladonna with work around the house – it benefited them both.  There wasn’t even a stray blanket or throw rug out of place.

            It seems he’d been so wrong.  It wasn’t horrible to be here, he had no fear, had no desire to flee and never return.  How foolish he was; he was being ridiculous, he told himself!

            He walked through the entire house and ended up near where he began, in the front parlour.  His parent’s portraits hung still about the fireplace, their clock sitting on the mantle between them. All was quiet and calm, not a sound to be heard; the quiet was a bit odd and he couldn’t figure out why.

            Until, that is, he realized that the old clock on the mantle was silent. In all his years, Bilbo couldn’t recall a time when the clock’s gentle tic-toc and chime were not heard. His father had gifted the timepiece to Belladonna on their wedding day with the words of Henry Van Dyke: _for those who love, time is eternity._ Bilbo rose and, taking the small key lying next to it, began to wind the clock.  Instantly the tic-toc resounded through the stillness, like a heartbeat, and with it the house seemed to come alive.

            Glancing up to his mother’s picture, he had the overwhelming feeling of her presence.  

            It slammed into Bilbo like a freight train.

            Oh, God!  He was right to begin with! The house was so silent, not because of the clock, but because there was no life here! His parents were gone and the house stood alone and empty, just as he was!  There was no warmth because there was no one there to give it warmth, the air was stale because their voices did not echo through it!   Never again would he hear his mother’s voice, calling to him as he came through the door _… Welcome home, sweetheart …_

            Naturally, that’s when the tears came.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Henry Van Dyke: 
> 
> Time is  
> too slow for those who wait  
> too swift for those who fear  
> too long for those who grieve  
> too short for those who rejoice  
> but for those who love, time is eternity.


	9. Intermezzo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> INTERMEZZO - a comic interlude inserted between the acts of an opera serial.
> 
> \------------
> 
> Thorin and Bilbo are moving towards the next act in their drama ... but once again, neither of them have a clue.

* * *

 

            Thorin knew Bilbo wouldn’t be back on Monday. Not that anyone told him; as far as he was concerned, a man that went out of his way like Bilbo had for him, wasn’t going to visit a grieving grandfather for a day and then depart. Still, Thorin went up to Bilbo’s apartment in the early evening and knocked, just in case.

            No answer.

            Tuesday was no different.

            On Wednesday, Thorin hoped that Bilbo was back.  He took along a bouquet of simple, cheerful flowers – gerberas, peonies, stock, ferns, and a little baby’s breath – and knocked on Bilbo’s door. When his first knock resulted in the same response as all the others, he tried a second time, but a little louder.

            No answer.

            “He hasn’t come back yet,” a voice sounded behind Thorin, just as he about to leave; it was Charlie.

            “No idea when?” Thorin asked.

            Charlie shook his head.  “He never said and he hasn’t called to let anyone else know either; not that I’ve heard of anyway.”

            Thorin sighed and nodded.  He wasn’t upset, just a little disappointed; he really wanted to meet Bilbo.

            “Would you like me to put those in his flat?” Charlie asked, gesturing towards the flowers in Thorin’s hand.

            “You can do that?”

            Charlie shrugged.  “We have keys to all the flats; for cases of emergency and such.”

            “And you don’t think he’d mind?” Thorin didn’t want to anger Bilbo before he even had the chance to thank him.

            Charlie shook his head.  “I don’t think so. He’s often asked me put deliveries in his flat for him.  I can’t see why he’d be mad if I left him your flowers.”

            Thorin thought about it for a second.  “If you’ve got a minute, “ Thorin stated, making up his mind, “would you come with me?”

            Charlie looked perplexed but followed Thorin up this Thorin’s flat. Once inside, Thorin wrote out a quick note stating that he looked forward to meeting and then signing his full name. Done, he turned around and handed both bouquet and note to Charlie.

            “Thanks, Charlie,” Thorin said with a smile, and giving the young man a fiver for his troubles. 

            “Anytime, Mister Durin,” Charlie said, giving Thorin a wink.

            If Thorin was under any delusion that Charlie was clueless as to what was going on between him and Bilbo, it was blown at that point.

            Thorin didn’t care.

            Thursday, once again, found Thorin standing at Bilbo’s door, another bouquet in his hand and no answer from within.  Thorin didn’t wait for an offer, just went down to the lobby and asked Charlie if he’d put them and a second note in Bilbo’s flat.

            Friday afternoon came and there was still no answer Bilbo’s door. Thorin had brought a bouquet of roses, having gotten a lesson from the florist.  Dark pink roses represented gratitude; he needed those.  Light pink roses meant affection; yep, he wanted some of those too. Yellow roses meant friendship and joy; Thorin certainly felt joy when he thought of Bilbo, so in they went. And White were for purity and sincerity; Thorin added a few of those for good measure.  Red roses were for love and Orange roses were for passion and desire; Thorin didn’t want to scare off Bilbo so he left them out.  For now.  However, standing once again at Bilbo’s door and getting no answer made the bright bouquet of pink, yellow and white flowers seem frivolous and almost silly.

            But Thorin would not be deterred.  He’d have Charlie put these in Bilbo’s flat with the other two bouquets and simply try again the next day.

            Maybe Bilbo’s grandfather was ill and needed more of Bilbo’s time. Maybe they were having a lovely visit and Bilbo, not having a reason to rush back, was staying. Maybe there were ongoing issues with his mother’s estate and Bilbo was dealing with them while he was home. There were lots of reasons Bilbo could be staying this long.

            Thorin took a deep breath; he could be patient.  He’d waited a long time to find someone worth the effort and he wasn’t going to give up now.

            Luckily Thorin also had a distraction; Five Strings had been invited to perform at a gathering of educators and others in the arts community that very night. Thorin hoped he could make some excellent contacts and have something exciting to share with Bilbo!

            Who knew whom he might meet?

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo had dreaded making the phone call.  He’d succeeded in procrastinating for days.  However, by Thursday night, he knew he could no longer avoid it, and now listening to his best friend go mental, Bilbo wished he'd called sooner.

            “What do you mean you’re moving home in a few days?!”

            Bilbo held the receiver away from his ear as Ori screeched at him, and sighed. “I thought the statement would be self-evident.”

            “But what about your job?!”

            “I’ve already arranged to work from home.”

            “And your flat?!”

            “The movers are coming the day after tomorrow and will be packing everything up.”

            “And what about Thorin?”

            Dead Silence.

            Bilbo has deliberately avoided even thinking about Thorin since his arrival. He had distracted himself all week with the discharge paperwork his mother had started, talking to nurses and physical and occupational therapists so that he fully understood his grandfather’s needs, had his grandfather’s new room and en suite at Bag End completed so that it was move-in ready and had several rawls with said grandfather over the whole thing.  Luckily the arguments were getting quieter and less frequent as the deadline moved closer.

            Bilbo’s plan was to return tomorrow, Friday night, and do a little packing himself, then supervise, and cleanup after, the movers on Saturday, stay with Ori Saturday night – if Ori was agreeable – take the train early Sunday morning back to Hobbiton, assist with the last minute packing of his grandfather’s things, sign the final discharge paperwork in the afternoon – The Gamgees had already agreed to supervise the delivery of Bilbo’s things on Sunday while he was at the care home getting his grandfather – and, if all went smoothly, Gerontius would be unpacked and settled into his new room at Bag End by Sunday evening.

            No, he’d think about Thorin after it was all done and the reality of losing his chance would be a dull pain.

            “There is no Thorin, Ori,” Bilbo said finally.  “He doesn’t even know I exist and if he ever figures out that it was me, I will be long gone out of his life.”

            “That sucks.”

            “That’s life.”

            “Then life sucks.”

            Bilbo sighed again.  “It certainly does.”

            Ori practically growled out of frustration.  “This is totally intolerable!  Why not move your grandfather to London?  You won’t have to deal with movers!  Or mess with your job!  And you can easily afford a larger flat!”

            “Because he is ninety-eight years old,” Bilbo said with a bit of an edge; the idea was ludicrous.  “He’s lived his whole life in this area and I won’t move him to some huge city where he knows no one, can’t easily get about on his own, and stick him in some cramped high rise, just to make it easier on me!”  Ori had no response to that, so Bilbo pushed on.  “Bag End is mine now.  It’s time for me to reclaim it and make it a home for my grandfather and myself.”

            “But you’ll be alone,” Ori replied quietly.

            “I won’t,” Bilbo insisted.  “I’ll have my grandfather with me.”

            “That’s not what I meant.”

            Bilbo knew perfectly well what Ori had meant, he just ignored it. “You can come visit anytime you want. Grandpa adores you.” Bilbo had always thought it amusing to watch Gerontius and Ori together; despite their age difference, both were snarky troublemakers and Ori always treated Gerontius like the elderly man was his own grandfather.

            “I would love to see him again.”

            “And you can bring that new guy you’re dating,” Bilbo added sweetly. “Whats-his-name.”

            “Dwalin,” Ori corrected.  “And we’re not _dating_ , per se. We’ve only been out a three times, nothing major.”

            “Three times in one week,” Bilbo said smile.  “That sounds like dating to me.”

            “We’ll see,” Ori said, “And he’s been busy; apparently his cousin has a stalker or something that Dwalin’s trying to find out more on.”

            “Creepy,” Bilbo shuttered at the thought. 

            “Well, forgetting cousins and creepy stalkers,” Ori said firmly, “Let’s get back to you and Thorin.”

            “Let’s not,” Bilbo said equally as firm.

            “Bilbo—”

            “Ori, please,” Bilbo said finally.  “Just drop it.  Right now I’m too busy with the move and Grandpa and all that to think about anything else.” That wasn’t true, because despite his attempts at distraction, Thorin was always in the back of his mind. “I just want to ask if I can stay with you Saturday night?  Unless of course, it’s inconvin—”

            “Oh, stuff it,” Ori said.  “You know you’re welcome to stay here anytime you need.  Don’t even start the whole manners crap with me; just come over.”

            “Right,” Bilbo said softly.  He really was going to miss seeing Ori on a regular basis. 

            “When are you back?”

            “Tomorrow night,” Bilbo said.  “I’ll get a descent night sleep before the movers arrive the next morning.”

            “Do you need help?”

            Bilbo knew that Ori would do anything to make the move easier, even if he didn’t agree with Bilbo’s decision.  “No. I’m fine.  I’ve hired the movers to do everything, so I’ll only need to pack a few essentials in rucksack and leave the rest for them.”

            “Then I’ll see you Saturday night.”

            “Yes.”

            “Call me if you need me.”

            “I will.  I promise.”

            After hanging up, Bilbo gathered his wallet and keys, headed out to the garage and drove his mothers – well, his now – bright red 1972 Austin 1300 over to see Gerontius. After the phone call, Bilbo thought an impromptu dinner with his grandfather would be nice.

            It didn’t quite work out the way he thought.

            “I wonder if this is the right decision,” Gerontius said quietly as he prodded his food about on his plate.

            Bilbo couldn’t help but snark.  “You mean your meal?”

            Gerontius gave him an unamused glare.  “You know perfectly well, I wasn’t talking about—”

            “You don’t belong in here,” Bilbo said, gently but seriously.

            “That’s not what I was talking about either,” Gerontius stated.

            “Then what?” Bilbo put his fork down and took a sip from his water glass.

            Gerontius did the same but merely sat back in his chair.  “I was talking about you decision to sacrifice your life—”

            “Here we go again,” Bilbo sighed, sitting back as well and folding his arms across his chest.  “We’ve been through this a hundred times.  I’m not _sacrificing_ my life.”

            “You are!” Gerontius insisted.  “You have _no business_ giving up your life to care for some old man!”

            “I’m not caring for _some old man_ ,” Bilbo said, “I’m caring for you; my grandfather!”

            “An old man at the end of his life!”

            “It doesn’t matter if it is the end or the beginning, you are my—”

            “It does!”  Gerontius hissed. “You are still young, you have a whole life ahead of you, you don’t need the burden of—”

            “Stop right there!” Bilbo said, leaning forward.  “Just stop!”

            Gerontius pinched his lips together but didn’t say a word.

            Bilbo took a breath and calmed himself; he wanted his grandfather to understand. “Listen to me carefully,” Bilbo said softly.  “If our roles were reversed—”

            “They aren’t.”

            “But if they were … just think about … if they were, if I were ill and needed to be assisted, but not so much as to require living in a facility, you wouldn’t think twice about caring for me.”

            Gerontius didn’t respond.

            “Answer me,” Bilbo commanded gently.

            Gerontius seemed to deflate and said faintly, “You know I would.”

            “Then why do you insist that it should be different when you need my assistance?”

            Gerontius looked sadly at Bilbo.  “Because I’m your grandfather; I should be the one to care for you.”

            Bilbo understood where the man was coming from; he just didn’t agree. “Yes, you’re my grandfather,” Bilbo said nodding.  “And I’m your grandson. We are family. But if you think I’m doing this because I feel guilty or obligated, then you are very wrong.” Bilbo moved around the tablet and pulled his grandfather into a warm embrace, whispering, “I’m doing this because I love you.”

            His grandfather hugged him tight, it was probably a bit much for the elderly man but Bilbo had to be honest, because in the end, it was the truth. If he’d had to make the same decision again and again and again, he would always choose his grandfather.

            That night Bilbo slept uneasily.  He wasn’t doubting the path he was on, he was just nervous and anxious; there was so much to get done and such a short period of time. 

            When he woke, he started the day with a calm, delicious, full breakfast. He made himself slow down and relax; saying it over and over in his mind like a mantra.   Finally, just after noon, he said good-bye to the Gamgees, and made to call for a taxi to the station. However, Bilbo was just reaching for the phone when there was a knock at the door. Confused as to who it could be, he was astonished to find –

            “Gandalf,” Bilbo said, shaking his head like a horse shaking off flies. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

            “Driving you to the station.”

            “What? Why?”

            “Do you not need to go back to London?”

            “Well … yes, but—”

            “And do you not need to take the train to get there?”

            “Yes, but—”

            “And do you not need a ride to said station?”

            “Yes, but—”

            “Then why are you asking why—”

            “BECAUSE, HOW DO YOU ALWAYS KNOW WHEN I NEED YOU AROUND?!”

            Gandalf just smiled and shrugged.

            “Nevermind,” Bilbo said, going to retrieve his keys and wallet.

            “And for the record,” Gandalf said, standing in the foyer. “I’m not just here to take you to the station.  I have business in London; you’ll have a traveling companion.”

            “It’ll make the trip seem faster,” Bilbo said, coming back. “I’m ready.”

            “No cases?” Gandalf asked as Bilbo locked the front door.

            “No need,” Bilbo said.  “I have clothes and necessities at my flat, so why bother.”

            The drive was quick and before Bilbo knew it, they had arrived.

            “So what business do you have in London?”  Bilbo asked as he got out of Gandalf’s Jag.

            “I’m meeting an old friend,” Gandalf said, taking a small, overnight case out of the car’s boot.  “Then I have a conference to go to in the evening.”

            “Conference?”

            “A gathering of teachers and educators,” Gandalf said. “It’s rather informal, but should be a pleasant evening.”

            “Sounds like you have quite the schedule,” Bilbo commented as they made to purchase their tickets

            “Mostly pleasure, really,” Gandalf said, taking his pass and waiting for Bilbo. “I haven't seen Thror in a long while and the conference should be enjoyable to say the least.  In fact, why don’t you come with me to the conference?”

            “Oh, I don’t know,” Bilbo said, not really very game.

            But Gandalf knew Bilbo’s reluctance.  “There will be no lectures if that is what you are worried about; those are all during the daytime. The night will be a mingling party. There will be good food, good company and good entertainment.”

            “Well ...” Bilbo did like the sound of that.  He was acutely aware that moving back to Hobbiton mean leaving behind the cultural and social aspects of London. 

            Gandalf clearly realized that he had Bilbo right where he wanted him. “Come. Enjoy one last evening of fun. Besides, you never know who you might meet.”

 

 

 


	10. Crescendo - Thorin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CRESCENDO - growing, becoming louder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin POV of their first meeting ...

* * *

 

            Thorin was in so much trouble.

            His Friday night hadn’t started that way, of course.

            He’d left Bilbo’s flowers and note with Charlie, hurried up to his flat, showered, trimmed, dressed in his best black suit – deciding against a tie, he choose instead a black shirt with a Mandarin collar; all the ladies of Five Strings has settled on very streamlined, unadorned black outfits, so he figured he would do the same.

            Although he would have preferred to bring his own harp, all those performing had been told that a concert harp would be available for any that would need it. He hated to admit it but it would be nice not to lug his harp on the tube.

            “Not tonight, love,” Thorin said, gently touching his harp as he made for the door.

            Arriving at the Grand Connaught Rooms, Thorin found that there were to be four acts for the evening.  In order, there was to be an opera singer, a Celtic flute and harp duo, a small chamber orchestra – the one he had _tried_ to audition for as a matter of fact – and his quintet, Five Strings. Each act had been asked to perform at least two pieces, but to play for no more than twenty minutes each; a silent interlude of five minutes between each act.  When everyone was done, the performers were invited to join the guests for the buffet dining.

            Everyone was good.

            The Opera diva was the least ‘diva-ish’ he’d ever met, performing ‘O Mio Babbino Caro’ from _Gianni Schicchi,_ and the Queen of the Night aria, ‘Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen’, from _The Magic Flute_ , which was impressive.

            The Celtic duo performed ‘The Rocky Road to Dublin’ that had everyone tapping his or her toes. However, they then did a slow, hauntingly beautiful rendition of ‘The Wind That Shakes the Barley’, the harpist’s voice an ethereal thing; magical really.

            The chamber orchestra did - okay.  Thorin realized that he still had a bitter taste in his mouth over the leader’s condescending attitude towards him and would have openly admitted that it colored his opinion of the orchestra’s performance. Whatever.  The guy could kiss his fucking arse for all he cared.

            Five Strings decided on two pieces.  The first was light, their own compilation of songs from Jane Austen productions; the theme from the BBCs 1995 ‘Pride and Prejudice’, ‘The Dreame’ from Ang Lee’s ‘Sense and Sensibility’, and finally, ‘The Main Titles’ from 1996’s ‘Emma.’ But it was their performance of Barber’s ‘Adagio for Strings’ that brought the whole place to stunned silence. They played it slow and gently until it was like music from heaven.  The applause was long and loud and Thorin felt they couldn’t have given a better performance.

            Well, he didn’t think _the ladies_ could've played better; he had a vastly different view of his own playing. Thorin would have given a perfect performance had he not been so distracted!

            Because he was in trouble.

            Major trouble.

            Five Strings had just started playing when he saw him; a young man with honey blond hair and pale, steel-blue eyes. Every time Thorin looked up, there he was!  And while Thorin tried to look in different directions, the guy seemed to always be in Thorin’s sight line!  To make matters even worse, the young man was beautiful.  Not just cute, not just attractive but, in Thorin’s eyes, fucking BE-U-TEE-FUL! Lord help him, it was all Thorin could do to continue to play and _not_ pop a boner right there on stage!

            And apparently, Thorin wasn’t the only one looking!  Many times Thorin tired to just close his eyes and play, but whenever he opened them again – thinking he was safe - there was the guy! More telling was that Thorin could have sworn he caught the guy looking away quickly; as if he had been caught staring at Thorin!

            Thorin forced himself to focus.  He chastised himself for his ... unwanted desires; what the hell was he doing?! He had Bilbo still to meet and he told himself that no blond stranger, no matter how perfectly lovely, should come first.

            What stranger could match what Bilbo had done for him?!

            Oh, sure – he heard his cousin’s voice in his head telling him, _‘What’s the harm in chatting the guy up?  Getting his number? What if things didn’t work out with Bilbo; you’ll at least have a back-up!’_ And for one, infinitesimal moment, Thorin agreed; what was the harm?

            Well, that was an easy question to answer; he felt that doing such a thing was cheating.  Sure he hadn’t met Bilbo yet and, sure, maybe there would be nothing between them, not even friendship. But something in Thorin squirmed at the thought of playing both the blond stranger and Bilbo Baggins. It wasn’t honorable.

            Sighing to himself, Thorin pushed the stranger out of his mind as best as he could.

            When they were finished, mingling with the other performers and the conference attendees was a good distraction.  Many congratulated him on his playing, stating that he was superb.  Even the fellow members of Five Strings joined in these statements and encouraged them; all the ladies were aware that Thorin was attempting to make connections and they were more than happy to be his conspirators.

            “Thorin Durin?” an unfamiliar voice sounded behind him.

            “Yes?” Thorin turned around and came face to face with a bearded, elderly man.

            “How do you do?” The man said with a youthful smile and an extended hand. “My name is Grey, Gandalf Grey, former professor.”

            “How do you do,” Thorin said, wearing a small smile and taking the man’s hand.

            “I’m an old friend of your grandfather’s,” Gandalf said.

            Thorin felt his stomach, and his smile, drop.  “Are you, now.”

            “Indeed,” Gandalf said, his smile still intact.  “I had the pleasure of chatting with him about you this afternoon.”

            “I’m sure he had plenty to say,” Thorin said dryly.  Thorin was sure that Thror waxed ‘poetically’ about Thorin wasting his time, living off the family charity, not having a steady, normal job - something along the lines of business or banking, maybe even—

            “He told how talented you were,” Gandalf said evenly. “He’s clearly proud of your abilities, as any grandfather would be, but I had no idea that his pride was so well placed; you play beautifully.”

            “Proud,” Thorin stated flatly.  “My grandfather?  Proud of me?”

            “Oh, yes,” Gandalf said, no hint of humor in his voice. “He summoned me to London for the sole purpose of discussing your situation.”

            “My situation,” Thorin said, releasing a hollow laugh and taking a deep drink of his beer.  “You mean his view of my weakness and inability to be a productive member of society.”

            “No,” Gandalf said gently.

            “My grandfather hates the fact that I—”

            “Do not make the mistake,” Gandalf interjected, “of viewing his hatred of your current state for hatred of your talent or your person.  He loves you very much and only wants you to be successful.”

            Thorin couldn’t believe this.  “He’s never once told me—”

            “It’s not in his nature.  He has never been good with expressing his emotions.”

            Thorin couldn’t argue that point.  “You said he ... he mentioned my situation.  What do you mean exactly?”

            “He hates that your talents are not appreciated,” Gandalf said. “He feels that you aren’t being seen for your full potential, but he feels powerless as to how to help you.”

            “Supporting me would be a good start,” Thorin groused.

            “He feels that throwing money at the—”

            “I didn’t mean money!  I talking about emotional support; encouragement!”

            “As I’ve said,” Gandalf insisted.  “He isn’t good with emotions; never has been; not as long as I’ve known him. To him, he sees the unappreciation of your peers, pushing you out of good positions, as driving you to destitution and hardship.  Therefore, he has been hoping to bring you into the family business as a way to end your suffering; naturally then, he sees giving money as _prolonging_ your hardship, not helping it.”

            Thorin hadn’t thought of it that way, but it still stung a bit.

            “Your grandfather,” Gandalf continued, “would like to find a more … permanent solution.  Something that will be rewarding and make you financially stable, yet allow you to showcase your talent and be appreciated for it.”

            “Good luck with that,” came a cold, sadly familiar voice, from behind Thorin.

            “Thranduil,” Thorin said, turning his head to face the man who seemed determined to ruin everything in Thorin’s life.

            “Thranduil,” Gandalf said with nod.

            “Gandalf,” Thranduil replied.

            Clearly they knew each other but Thorin didn’t think either of them looked particular pleased to see the other.  Thorin didn’t care in the end. “I’m surprised to see you here,” Thorin said to Thranduil, trying to hide his contempt.

            “Yes,” Thranduil said, his oily smile not reaching his eyes. “I don’t enjoy listening to such … mediocre talent, but c’est le vive.”

            Thranduil’s jib was not lost on anyone.

            “Thorin is amazing,” came a soft voice out of the crowd and they all turned to see Charlotte, from Five Strings, standing there.  “Rachel said that Thorin is so good, she almost fears for her position while she’s away.”

            “Mediocrity does appreciate the same,” Thranduil quipped nastily.

            “These ladies are superb,” Thorin said, defending his friends. “They work hard and deserve your respect!”

            But Thranduil wasn’t paying a bit of attention.  “What amazes me most,” Thranduil said, ignoring Charlotte and Thorin, and turning to Gandalf, “Is that you appreciate it so.”

            “I believe Thorin’s more than talented,” Gandalf said sincerely. “Gifted would be closer in my view.”

            Thranduil raised a sardonic eyebrow.  “And here I thought you had better judgment …” Thranduil threw a sideways glance at Thorin, “… certainly better taste.”

            “FUCK YOU!”

            Thorin was startled by the outcry, but was even more stunned when he turned his head and found the beautiful blond guy was the one that had shouted it. And Thorin could only gape as the guy stepped forward and challenged Thranduil to his face!

            “YOU KNOW NOTHING OF THORIN’S TALENT!”

            Unlike Thorin, Thranduil still had his voice.  “And just who the hell do you think you are, to—”

            “THAT’S MY QUESTION TO YOU, YOU PRICK!”  The blond guy, though a head shorter than Thranduil, showed no sign of fear and actually poked Thranduil in the chest to emphasize his words. “JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE TO SPEAK TO THORIN THAT WAY?!”

            “Obviously,” Thranduil sneered down at the shorter man, “you are delusional and misinformed if you think Thorin Durin worthy of your defense.”

            “I know him well enough to know you’re a poncy dirt-bag without a ounce of intelligence if you can dismiss—”

            “It’s not my intelligence that should be questioned, you sour-faced little ditch-rat!  I’m one of the foremost experts in—”

            “Expert at what?  Making an arse of yourself?  Because let me tell you—”

            Thorin was dizzy!  The two men went at like blond Tasmanian Devils, each verbally circling and insulting the other; and it was clear that Thranduil had met his match and was not going to get an edge over his opponent.  It was like watching a tennis match between two equally vicious and aggressive players. But Thorin was also dizzy from shock; who was this man that came out of nowhere, this man he’d never met before, this total stranger who was defending him like Sir Lancelot defending King Arthur’s honor.

            It surprised, amazed, humbled and totally bewitched Thorin; no one had ever defended him like this in his life!

            “That’s enough,” Gandalf said, reaching forward and pulling the blond man back.

            “Don’t get in the way, Gandalf!” the blond man shouted. “I’m not finished with his royal dick-ness here!” The blond spat out the last words with a sneer.

            “As if some angry rabbit could take me down!” Thranduil shot back.

            “Why you, piece of—” The blond was almost foaming at the mouth, struggling to get free of Gandalf’s grip, even as the elderly man began dragging the him away.

            “I said that’s enough,” Gandalf growled, “Bilbo Baggins!”

            Thorin’s world tipped upside down.  Everything slowed, and Thorin was only able to turn his head in time to see Bilbo Baggins, _his Bilbo_ – because how many Bilbo Baggins can there be in the world – being hauled away by Gandalf, just as the crowd swallowed them both up.

            Bilbo – right here, right next to him, and he’d lost him!

            As time resumed, it was only the span of a heartbeat before Thorin made to go after Bilbo.  However, Thorin had only taken one step before a cold voice stopped him dead.

            “I should go after that miserable little mite for questioning me!” Thranduil said.

            Bilbo may have started it, but Thorin was going to end it. Now.

            Grabbing a fist full of Thranduil’s expensive shirt and pulling him within inches of Thorin’s face, Thorin snarled, “You make any move towards Bilbo Baggins and the last thing you’ll see is my fucking fist as it smashes into your face, you ... poncy dirt-bag!”  Thorin thought Bilbo had hit the descriptive nail-on-the-head calling Thranduil that!

            “How dare you speak to me, like—”

            “I mean it!”  Thorin shook Thranduil hard enough that the man's head bobbed about like a doll's.  “I’ll rearrange your face so badly, the doctors will need a blueprint to put it back together!”

            Thorin released Thranduil with a shove and turned away. He didn’t care what Thranduil was screaming at his back nor how many people were staring or laughing at the impromptu show; he had more important things to do, places to be, people to see.

            Correction. There was only one person he wanted to see.

 

 

 


	11. Crescendo - Bilbo

* * *

 

 

            Bilbo was in so much trouble.

            He’d should’ve known he was in trouble about two seconds after walking into his building.

            “Welcome back, Mister Baggins,” Charlie said with a toothy grin.

            “Thanks … Charlie,” Bilbo was a little unnerved by the young man's Cheshire Cat smile, but he just ignored it.

            “Welcome home, Mister Baggins!” Mrs. Edwards said, as she and an elderly gentleman walked from the mailroom to the lifts.

            “Thank you,” Bilbo said, feeling uneasy.   _What was going on with everyone?_

            “Is this the famous Bilbo Baggins you were talking about?” the man asked with a laugh.

            _Huh?_

            Mrs. Edwards cast the man an exasperated look.  “How many Bilbo Baggins do you think live in this building, Edward?”

            The man laughed again as he turned to Bilbo, holding out his hand in greeting. “Edward Longborne, pleasure to finally meet you.  We missed you at the concert.”

            Bilbo shook Mr. Longborne’s hand.  “How do you do.” _Concert?_   "What concert?” Bilbo asked just as the lift doors opened and all three got on.

            “The concert the harpist gave to us, of course,” Mr. Longborne said.

            _What?!_   “I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

            “He couldn’t have known about the concert,” Mrs. Edwards chastised her friend.  "He was gone before the poster went up!"  She turned to explain to Bilbo.  “That Sunday after you left, the harpist—”

            “Mister Durin,” Mr. Longborne added.

            “—gave the building a concert to thank us for the letters we wrote him.”

            “He did?”  Bilbo’s stomach flipped over and dropped to somewhere down around his knees.

            The elderly couple nodded.

            “He was so grateful for them,” Mr. Longborne stated.

            “He was sorry to have missed you,” Mrs. Edwards said.

            Bilbo felt at little sick; _Sorry to have missed YOU?!_

            The lift doors opened and Bilbo exited in a daze, barely remembering to wish the other two good-bye.  Oh dear God in Heaven!  Had Thorin also figured out—

            Bilbo froze as his flat door swung open.  There, on his table, were three bouquets of flowers; one filled with cheerful, spring-like flowers, the second one was comprised of small sunflowers; and the last – why the last were of lovely roses, in shades of pink, yellow and white.

            And there were notes with each bouquet.

 

            _“I look forward to meeting you in person”_ read the one marked Wednesday.

            _“I hope these find you well”_ read the one from Thursday.

            _“I’m patient – I can wait”_ read the note from that very day.

 

            How the hell did Thorin get them into his flat?  Not that Bilbo cared or was upset; hell, he’d gladly have left the door wide open if he had known he’d come home to such a beautiful sight as the bouquets. But that still didn’t explain — Charlie; no wonder they boy was smiling like a cat that got the cream.

            Oh well.

            Bilbo took a deep inhale of the roses and his head swam from the delicate perfume of the buds. At that moment, he couldn’t care less what Charlie or anyone else thought.

            But crap!  Thorin had found him out and what in the hell should he do?  Gandalf had finally talked him into going to that stupid conference, but now Bilbo really didn’t want to go!  He wanted to stay home, maybe cook something, something to share with someone, with Thorin.           

            Well, at the moment, there was only one thing to do really.  Bilbo walked out the flat, took the stairs up one flight and marched himself right up to Thorin’s door and knocked.

            No answer.

            Maybe Thorin was napping; Bilbo knocked again.

            No answer.

            Bilbo pressed his ear to Thorin’s door but heard nothing. Maybe Thorin was in the loo? Bilbo knocked a third time, a little louder.

            No answer.

            He reminded himself that it was very likely Thorin either had a job somewhere, or had gone out, maybe to dinner, dinner with someone else, maybe another guy?

            _Okay, enough of that._ Bilbo shook his head and sighed.

            Fine.

            Bilbo returned to his flat and decided that if Thorin was not at home, he might as well go out.  He would use the conference as a distraction.  Besides, there was always later or the next morning.  But the movers were coming in the morning and, dammit, that meant he’d have to tell Thorin that he was leaving.

            He’d have to give up.           

            Of course there was no real indication that Thorin would care that Bilbo was leaving.  Thorin’s notes only said was the he was looking forward to meeting and hadn’t Thorin given a concert for the whole building as a thanks, so maybe Thorin just wanted to say ‘thank you’ to him and that’s it.  Hell, for all he knew, Thorin was dating someone or engaged or asexual or didn't even wanted any kind of relationship.

            And wasn’t all that depressing.

            By the time Bilbo got to the conference, he had missed the first two acts, an opera singer and a Celtic duo.  In fact, the third act – a chamber orchestra – was just starting their set when he finally slid up next to Gandalf.

            “There you are!” Gandalf said, with a huge smile and a large plate of finger foods.  “I feared you had chickened out.”

            Bilbo rolled his eyes.  “A Baggins would never chicken out.”  Well, not unless he had a sexy harpist lounging at home, but that was a totally different matter.

            “Well, I'm glad you got out of that flat for a change,” Gandalf said, offering his plate to Bilbo to pick from.

            “No reason to sit home on one of my last free nights in London,” Bilbo said, thinking it sounded fake even to him and taking a hors d'oeuvre from Gandalf.

            “Not even for your mysterious musician?”

            “He wasn’t at home,” Bilbo let slip before realizing what he’d done and almost choking on a mini quiche.

            Gandalf laughed.  “I don’t see why you won't tell me more about him.”

            “No point.”  It was true. Besides, Gandalf didn’t need to know what instrument Thorin played, so Bilbo didn’t tell him and Bilbo absolutely had refused to share Thorin’s name; last thing he wanted was Gandalf sticking his big nose where it didn’t belong!

            “Whoever this young man is,” Gandalf said between bites, “I’m sure he would appreciate at least meeting you in person.”

            “Again, no point.”

            Gandalf sighed and Bilbo escaped to the food tables.  He got a drink first and slammed down a small vodka tonic to help him.  Grabbing a plate, he picked his way among the finger sandwiches and canapé, nibbling here and there as he went.  Bilbo hoped that the time apart would allow Gandalf to get distracted or at least forget about Bilbo’s personal life. 

            He was so wrong.

            “Now, Bilbo …” Gandalf started the second Bilbo returned.

            “How was your visit with your friend?” Bilbo figured that stopping Gandalf before the man could go any further was for the best and Bilbo was all about changing the subject from Thorin.

            “He’s, uhm … fine.  He’s fine,” Gandalf said, getting the hint.

            “What did you two talk about?”

            “His grandson.”

            “Oh, really,” Bilbo said feinting interest.  “Is there a problem with the boy?”

            “Thror wanted to know if I had any connections that might help him.”

            “Is he ill or something?”

            “Oh, no … we’re talking professional connections, not medical referrals.”

            Bilbo nodded as he nibbled, totally not paying any attention to the changing of the musical acts.  “Does he have issues with his career, or are we talking unemployment type issues?”

            “Not unemployment, per se, but apparently he’s had a difficult time finding steady, rewarding work.”

            “And why did your friend think you could help?”

            Gandalf raised a smug eyebrow.  “Because I have numerous contacts.”

            “You mean you like to meddle?”  Bilbo quipped.

            “I mean I have _numerous contacts_ ,” Gandalf tersely.  “Contacts that could easily help the young man.”

            Bilbo giggled to himself; he loved it when Gandalf got all testy. “What does the guy do?”

            “He’s a musician,” Gandalf said, staring off into the distance. “A harpist here in London to be exact.”

            Bilbo’s hand froze in mid-air on its way to his mouth.  _No … it wasn’t possible … it couldn’t be._ But his mind was racing as pieces fell into place; _Thror, Thorin, Thror, Thorin … the names were so damn close, and the guy was a harpist. Gandalf was here in London to see the grandfather … Thror … a harpist … in London.  HOLY CHRIST ON A CRACKER!_ “And, uhm … what is his, uhm … his last name?”

            “Durin,” Gandalf said flatly, not paying a bit of attention to Bilbo paling face. “In fact …” Gandalf said, his voice trailing off for a second before brightening.  “He’s right there …” Gandalf pointed, “… on stage.”

            Bilbo turned and almost fainted.  Across the room, sitting down at an ornate harp on stage, was Thorin, _his Thorin_ , dressed in black, his bread trim and neat, hair sliced back and his fingers gliding over the stringed instrument as the group warmed up.

            Bilbo was in so much trouble!

            His first instinct was to run, flee – hide!  But it was no good because just as he was about to bolt, his eyes met Thorin’s and he was rooted where he stood.

            Thorin’s online picture had been unnervingly handsome; but in person, Thorin was mesmerizing.  Even from across the room Thorin has so much more presence, so much more power to pull Bilbo’s breath out of him; there was no question of leaving now.

            But Thorin seemed to be staring at him, so Bilbo looked away. He tried to move behind this person or that group but every time he looked back to the stage, Thorin seemed to be looking at him, searching him out in the crowd, staring at him!

            _Oh, God!_   What was he to do?

            And if Bilbo had thought Thorin’s practicing was good, it was nothing to a full on performance.  Despite the playing of the others, the murmured voices around him, Bilbo could hear nothing else but Thorin’s harp; whether softly strummed or plucked dramatically, Thorin’s harp filled the whole world.

            It was too much.

            Bilbo was going to have to leave!  He couldn’t possibly run into Thorin like this, like he was like a twitter-pated teenager! If he could make it to the door, he could get a taxi—

            “There you are!” Gandalf said, suddenly appearing next to Bilbo.

            “What?”

            “What on earth’s the matter with you?” Gandalf asked, clearly irritated. “Why are you moving all around the place?”

            “I … uhm …” Bilbo shook his head, trying to clear it. “I was … uhm … looking for a good spot.”

            “For what?”

            “Listening. The, uhm … the acoustics in here are very poor, and—”

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gandalf said rolling his eyes.  “These rooms are designed with acoustics in mind.”

            “Oh, sure,” Bilbo said, totally screwed now, “So they want you to think, but—”

            “Nevermind,” Gandalf waved Bilbo’s comment away and grabbed Bilbo's arm.  “We need to hurry if we’re to catch him.”

            “Who?” Bilbo said quickly as Gandalf began to steer him through the crowd. “Who … who are you trying to catch?”      

            “Thorin, of course,” Gandalf said with a huff.  “Stop dawdling, and hurry up!”

            Bilbo’s panic was rising.  “Me? He doesn’t know me! Wouldn’t it be best if—”

            “He doesn’t know me either,” Gandalf retorted, not releasing Bilbo from his steely grip.  “Which is all the more reason for you to be there; he’ll be more comfortable with someone his age in the conversation.”

            Bilbo had no hope of escape, and actively wondered if this was how prisoners used to feel as they were led to the gallows, or electric chair, or … or the showers.  His mind was blank and he could only pray for a miracle.

            Said miracle came just as Thorin was within two metres.           

            Gandalf loosened his grip so that, obviously, he could appear cool and calm, but at that same moment, a waiter walked by with a tray of champagne flutes and Bilbo gracefully sidestepped to take a glass.  Bilbo was able in that last second to not only be a few steps behind Gandalf, but he was able to slide behind Thorin so that the man would not see him. 

            That deserved a nice healthy swig of champagne.

            “Thorin Durin?” Gandalf said

            “Yes?” Thorin turned and faced Gandalf, totally missing Bilbo standing behind him.

            “How do you do?  My name is Grey, Gandalf Grey, former professor.”

            “How do you do." Thorin took Gandalf's offered hand.

            “I’m an old friend of your grandfather’s,” Gandalf said.

            “Are you, now.”

            Bilbo listened to the conversation between Thorin and Gandalf but only in the vaguest of terms.  It was hard to concentrate because, God help him, Thorin’s voice had that deep timbre that Bilbo loved; it shivered through him and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to hear that voice, whispering his name in the dark of the night, as warm hands – Bilbo downed the rest of his drink and gladly snagged a second as another server walked by.

            “I didn’t mean money!  I talking about emotional support; encouragement!”

            _What?_   Bilbo stilled; was he hearing right?  _Thorin’s family didn’t support him?  Had the poor man been thrown out to fend for himself?  That was terrible!_ Especially as he was so talented!  It was unfair! It was unjust! It was awful!  Oh, if Bilbo ever met that grandfather of Thorin’s he’d gladly give the old fart a big piece of his mind!  Bilbo downed his second glass and wasn’t even paying attention as he swiped a third one.

            “Good luck with that.”

            _Who the fuck was that?_ Bilbo, feeling a little tipsy, peaked around Thorin and saw a tall, blond guy with a contemptuous gleam in his eyes and a rather arrrogent look on his face; Bilbo had a sudden urge to put a fist in that face.

            “I don’t enjoy listening to such … mediocre talent, but c’est le vive.”

            _Mediocre talent?!_    The jerk couldn’t possibly be talking about Thorin?!  Thorin was amazing and awesome and so sexy and, really, did this arsehole even know what he was fucking talking about?  The knob-head!

            “What amazes me most, is that you appreciate it so.”

            _Who’s he talking to?!_

            “I believe Thorin’s more than talented.  Gifted would be closer in my view.”

            _You tell him, Gandalf!_

            “And here I thought you had better judgment … certainly better taste.”

            _THAT’S IT!_  “FUCK YOU!”

            It was all kind of a blur after that.  Bilbo didn’t know who the guy was, didn’t care who the guy was, all he knew was that it was take down time and he just let his mouth do all the work. Really, just who in the name of Pippa’s Middleton’s arse did this poncy dirt-bag think he was to question and insult _his_ Thorin!

            The Mother Fucker!

            “That’s enough.”

            “Don’t get in the way, Gandalf!  I’m not finished with his royal _dick-ness_ here!”

            “As if some angry rabbit could take me down!”

            _Rabbit?!  I’ll show you angry rabbit!_   “Why you, piece of—”

            “I said that’s enough, Bilbo Baggins!”

            Bilbo was enraged!   How dare that fucking sod ruin Thorin’s night?!  Gandalf needed to let him go so that he could pound that ratty bottle-blond’s arrogant face into the ground!  Bilbo ranted and raged all the way to the taxi.  The taxi driver had to listen to Bilbo’s expletives all the way to Bilbo’s building.  Luckily only the lobby walls and Gandalf bore witness to Bilbo’s snarling countenance.

            But by the time the short lift ride was over and Bilbo was unlocking his flat door, he realized he was in deep trouble.  In fact, he was in so much trouble Bilbo was a fair way to being sober.

            “I’m amazed,” Gandalf said.  “I never knew you had it in you.”

            “It’s not funny, Gandalf,” Bilbo said quietly, sitting rather dejected at his kitchen table.

            “I beg to differ,” Gandalf chuckled.  “I found it very amusing.”

            “You would,” Bilbo replied, not laughing at all.  “I ruined everything.”

            “Who would have thought,” Gandalf continued, setting down a strong cup of tea in front of Bilbo.  “The son of one of my dearest friends and the grandson of one of my oldest!   Talk about small world!”

            “I’m so glad for you,” Bilbo said sarcastically.

            “If only you’d told me of Thorin to begin with,” Gandalf said, soothingly, as he took a chair next to Bilbo.  “I might have—”

            “Meddled much sooner?” Bilbo asked, not even joking.

            “I was going to say ‘resolved the situation,’” Gandalf countered. “But meddle works as well.”

            Bilbo just shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter any more anyway.  It’s over.”

            “What are you talking about?” Gandalf asked, amused again.

            “I EMBARASSED HIM!” Bilbo spat out, but the fire in him died quickly. “And … and not only did I do it in public but in front of his colleagues and peers. I’ll be lucky if he even looks at me, let alone speaks to me in the future.”

            “Oh, come now,” Gandalf said quietly.  “I think you’re painting the picture far blacker than it needs to be.”

            Bilbo shook his head.  No, he was right. “At this point …” Bilbo looked sadly at the bouquets on his table; they held so much promise earlier in the evening. Now they seemed to mock him in his failure.  “… I'm sure Thorin wants nothing to do with me.”

            “I wouldn’t be so sure, if I were you,” Gandalf said.

            Bilbo was convinced the man was clueless.  “And what makes you think that?”

            “Human nature, my boy,” Gandalf replied softly.

            “You’re deluding yourself.”

            “I’ll bet you money I’m right.”

            Before Bilbo could do more than open his mouth to respond, four firm knocks resounded from Bilbo’s front door.

            “You can pay me later,” Gandalf said smugly as he got up from the table.

            “Gandalf! No, don’t—” Bilbo hissed, standing up to stop his friend, but it was too late.

            “Thorin!” Gandalf said cheerfully as he opened the door.

            “Mr. Grey,” Thorin said, still blocked from Bilbo’s view. “Is Bilbo at home?”

            “Of course,” Gandalf said, stepping aside.

            Thorin slowly stepped into the flat and Bilbo saw right away that the suit jacket was gone and Thorin wore his shirt untucked, open to mid-chest, sleeves rolled up, completely casual in the most provocative way imaginable.  Bilbo could only marvel; the man was more handsome, more impressive, more … intimidating, now that there were not hundreds of people standing about them.  It was only them; metres apart. And Thorin, he stood there, his expression unreadable, totally setting every nerve in Bilbo’s body on fire.

            “Well,” Gandalf said, straightening his jacket and looking entirely too pleased with himself by half.  “If you two will excuse me, I really must be off.”

            Both Bilbo and Thorin turned to him.

            “You’re leaving?” Bilbo said, almost pleading with the man to stay.

            “An old man like me,” Gandalf said sweetly, “Really should be in bed early.”

            “Why do I get the feeling,” Thorin said, raising an eyebrow, “that statement is most incongruous?”

            “Because he’s full of shit,” Bilbo said, glaring at Gandalf.

            Gandalf just laughed.  “I have no idea what you two are talking about.  Good night.” Gandalf was out the door before one could say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’

            The silence stretched for what seemed an impossible eternity. Bilbo could practically feel his nerves crackling and he wanted to fidget; it was all he could do not to. And still, Thorin stood there, tall and strong, no fear; unlike Bilbo.  Bilbo couldn’t even find the bravery to look at the man who had come to so consume his life.

            “Thank you … for the flowers,” Bilbo finally forced out quietly, focusing on the bouquets before him on the table.  “They’re lovely.”

            “They’re the least I could do,” Thorin said, his deep voice filling the air between them.

            The silence returned and Bilbo was … lost.  How does one even begin—

            “Bilbo,” Thorin said softly, taking a step closer.

            “I’m sorry!” Bilbo exclaimed, finding the strength to look at Thorin.

            Thorin seemed perplexed.  “You’re … _sorry_?”

            Bilbo nodded.  “For embarrassing you.”

            Thorin’s looked surprised.  “You think you _embarrassed_ me?”

            “Humiliated you?" Bilbo was dying side; of course, Thorin probably thought what Bilbo did was far worse.  “I … I honestly didn’t mean—”

            Thorin held up a hand and took another step closer.  “You didn’t do … _either_ of those things to me.”   Thorin seemed to have a had time swallowing.  “You … you defended me … you stood up and defended me, in public, to a man that few have even doubted in his lies, let alone called him out to his face.”

            Bilbo took a breath, feeling better.  “Well … he … he deserved it!” Bilbo felt a little of the anger he felt at the conference.  “He had no right to say such things about you!” Bilbo took another breath to calm himself. “I only regret I didn’t get a chance to plant a fist in his smug face.”

            Thorin laughed and it was music to Bilbo’s ears.

            “As satisfying as that would have been,” Thorin said, smiling, “I’m glad you didn’t.  I'd have been beside myself if you’d been arrest for battery.”

            Bilbo huffed out a laugh, he had to admit that Thorin was quite right.

            “So,” Thorin said, taking a few more steps closer, “if either of us should be giving thanks, it should be me."

            "You're wrong," Bilbo said softly.  "It's you that deserves my thanks ... my gratitude.  Without your music ... without you ... I don't know how I would have survived that first night back from my mother's funeral.  You gave me such hope ... you lifted my spirits and I felt ... I felt that there was still a reason to rejoice and be happy in life.  In a way, you saved me."

            "Then we share the same gratitude," Thorin said.

            "I don't understand—"

            "Because of you and your notes and letters," Thorin confessed, "I was pulled from the brink." Bilbo looked confused and a little shocked.  "I was set to give up my music—"

            "No!"

            "—I didn't think I had anything more to offer and that my grandfather was correct; I was merely wasting my time."

            "That's not true, Thorin!"

            "I know that now.  And again, it's because of you.  You gave me the courage to continue.  How can I not, at the very least, thank you for that?"

            “As a … wise man once said,” Bilbo quipped gently, “It’s the least I could do.” Thorin was slowing closing the distance between them and Bilbo felt the flutter of his nerves again. “Would you … like … something to eat?”

            Thorin smiled and shook his head.  “No.”

            “Something to drink, perhaps?”

            “No.” Thorin was almost close.

            “I could make coffee or … tea, if you want.”  Bilbo made to turn, feeling overwhelmed.

            But Thorin was there now, right in front of Bilbo and, placing a warm hand on Bilbo’s shoulder instantly stilled both Bilbo and his nerves. Thorin reached up with his free hand and slowly, gently cupped Bilbo’s face, ghosting a harp-callused thumb over the apple of Bilbo’s cheek.

            “It isn’t food or drink I want,” Thorin whispered.

            The world dropped away; Bilbo held his breath and gladly tilted his face upward as Thorin leaned down, each drew the other closer and as their lips met, they both melted into their long and much desired kiss.

 

 

 


	12. Nocturne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOCTURNE - a night-piece, music that evokes a nocturnal mood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** WARNING *** This is a VERY explicit scene and if it is NOT to your taste, you may skip it and await for the next chapter (you will not lose any of the story should you decide to skip this chapter).
> 
> \------------
> 
> Also, this takes place in a FANTASY WORLD, where there are no worries or fears - HOWEVER, in real life, NEVER PLAY WITHOUT PROTECTION - A CONDOM JUST MIGHT SAVE YOUR LIFE.

* * *

 

 

            There is a saying that when two people kiss, they hear Puccini in their heads. Considering that he wrote some of the most beautiful arias the world has ever known, this is not a stretch of anyone’s imagination.

            However, if one were to ask Bilbo or Thorin at that moment, they both would have disagreed.  What they heard was too soft, too delicate, ethereal almost; it was closer to Pachelbel’s Canon than anything else.

            The world had quieted, time stilled and there was only each other; Thorin tenderly cupping Bilbo’s face in his hands and Bilbo gently wrapping his arms around Thorin, drawing Thorin to him and keeping them close.  The slide of their lips against the other was soft, almost fragile, and yet warm and filled with hope, promises and emotions neither was willing to admit.

            But breathe they must, so they moved but did not release the other. Thorin ghosted his lips over Bilbo’s cheeks and face, pressing a feather like kiss here and there; the apples of Bilbo’s cheeks, the soft skin of Bilbo’s temples, the smooth expanse of Bilbo’s forehead, all were for the taking.  Bilbo for his part, would not deny Thorin’s exploration and merely leaned into every kiss, every touch, and he too pressed a kiss whenever he was blessed with Thorin’s skin near his lips.

            Bilbo was treated to the side of Thorin’s neck, exposed and inviting, and Bilbo could not resist running his teeth over the sensitive skin, taking a gentle nip; a hitched breath Bilbo’s reward for his boldness.

            Thorin returned the gesture by suckling one of Bilbo’s earlobes, causing Bilbo to shiver from the act, which then spurred Thorin to trace the remaining ear, lightly, with his warm, moist tongue.

            Soon both were slowly, gently, guiding the other, hands giving a slight pull here and a tug there on clothes so that by the time they were in the bedroom, Thorin wore naught but his pants, the belt undone, and Bilbo was dressed only in this underclothes.

            None of this meant that they still could not be playful.

            “Thorin …” Bilbo breathed, tugging at Thorin’s pants, “… I have … to wonder …” his mouth covered momentarily by Thorin’s, “… if you … desire me, or … or not.”

            Thorin chuckled darkly, on the cusp of ripping Bilbo’s undershirt off. “If you … have to wonder,” Thorin growled deeply, “… then I’m … doing this … all wrong.”

            Neither wanted to give up but both were done letting the other struggle, so they stripped off the last of their garments themselves, all the while kissing, unwilling to break what little contact the connection offered.

            In one quick, coordinated moment, they both tore the covers from Bilbo’s bed and were soon lying upon the cream-colored sheets.  They rolled, coiled and entwine about each other as if seeking to touch every centimetre of the other’s body with every centimeter of their own skin, never stating, but both loving the contrasts between them; Thorin’s firm, hirsute form as enticing to Bilbo as Bilbo’s soft, smooth body was to Thorin.

            Eventually the settled into a position that both loved; Bilbo beneath and Thorin above.   Bilbo’s could just about breathe; Thorin deftly glided his calloused fingers over Bilbo’s body, as if he were playing an instrument.  And Bilbo held on to Thorin, letting the musician pull gasps and moans from him – like music. They were composing a concerto of pure emotion and desire, together, and neither wanted the erotic improvisation to end.

            After weeks of games and hiding, both wanted nothing more than to know; know the other’s scent, know the sound of their name in the other’s breathless whisper, know the heady release at the moment of climax, if only so they could know the feeling of the other in their arms as they took the other over the edge.

            Thorin began to move his mouth slowly down the length of Bilbo’s body, learning all the places that made Bilbo shiver in pleasure.  He suckled and nibbled Bilbo’s nipples until they were rosy pink, erect and tender, while he then tasted his way over and across Bilbo’s belly and hips; all the while running his large hands over and around Bilbo’s sensitive thighs and groin.  Finally, after what seemed torturous pleasure, he could hold back no longer and took Bilbo’s length in his mouth.  Bilbo threw back his head the moment Thorin’s lips touched the throbbing head of his cock, not realizing the predatory joy Thorin took in making him feel that way. Over and over, Thorin slowly nursed Bilbo’s cock until it was rock-hard and Bilbo began to whimper. Thorin tried to hold back his ministrations of Bilbo’s beautiful length but he was caught by own wants and desire and before long, Bilbo's whole body shook with his release. Thorin did not complain and took Bilbo’s orgasm gladly.

            The night, however was far from over. 

            Bilbo gently pulled on Thorin’s shoulders, letting the harpist know that he wanted Thorin to move upward, to come to him, and Thorin obeyed, moving to share desperate, hot kisses.   But the kissing wasn’t the only thing that Bilbo wanted.  While wrapping one arm around Thorin’s neck to keep the man in place, Bilbo lightly pushed with the other, letting Thorin know to roll over, on his back.

            Once again, Thorin obeyed.

            With Thorin now in a submissive position, Bilbo slide his hands over Thorin’s thick, muscular arms until he had a firm hold of each wrist, proceeding to pin Thorin’s arms to the pillow above Thorin’s head. Straddling the taller man’s hips, Bilbo slowly moved his body down until Thorin’s erection lay perfectly in the groove of Bilbo’s cheeks.   Slow thrusts of Bilbo’s hips had Thorin’s hard-on gliding up and down along Bilbo’s crack; if Bilbo took more than a little pleasure in teasing Thorin’s knob with his arse, Bilbo he did not state it, simply letting his actions speak for him.

            Thorin, on the other hand, gave no resistance and happily stayed pinned beneath Bilbo, revealing in the indescribable sensation of being both, submissive and yet the top; for he knew where Bilbo was heading with his ploy. Indeed, Bilbo took Thorin close to the edge of cumming before stopping and using a hand to lubricate both Thorin’s cock and his own opening; Thorin didn’t move, even though his wrists had been released.

            Soon Bilbo was teasing Thorin with his hole, slowly taking Thorin's rod in an inch then pulling off; each push going slightly deeper than the last.  Thorin was moaning from the feeling, almost begging for freedom.  Bilbo smiled to himself, Thorin was where Bilbo had always wanted him.

            But Bilbo was not cruel and with a final push back, took all of Thorin inside. Both men went lightheaded, and each pulled the other to them so that the could kiss deeply, their tongues making love onto themselves.   In the end, it was the gentle thrust upward of Thorin’s hips at the same moment of Bilbo’s slow glide down Thorin’s shaft, coupled with their kissing that sent Thorin over the edge and he pulled Bilbo to him, a little roughly, as he growled out his climax, filling Bilbo.

            In the hours that followed, so much passed between them but no words where needed.  They enjoyed a long shower, allowing the warm water to run like a baptismal rain over their bodies. They lay in bed, sharing languorous kisses and body caresses.  They made love a second time, changing positions and enjoying each other in all the ways two could give and take of themselves with another.

            Even as they slept, they held each other close, not willing to let the other go, still reveling in their dreams how their body’s made a sort of music with the other; a little night music.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The saying about Puccini and kissing is referenced from the movie, 'The Mirror Has Two Faces.'


	13. Decrescendo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DECRESENDO - Italian: growing less, to decrease

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's got to be a morning after ... sadly so
> 
> (i don't believe in many superstitions but how strange that the saddest chapter is number 13)

* * *

 

 

            Thorin was in heaven; the state of being of course, not the actual place. Although, he imagined it must feel like this – warm, contented, sated, and above all else, aligned with the stars and universe.  Sure, it sounded overtly melodramatic, even to him, but Thorin couldn’t bring himself to use the language of the mundane to describe his feelings. 

            They were perfection.

            And speaking of perfection, he took a breath and at the same time, gathered the bundle of warmth closer to him.  Bilbo fit perfectly in his arms; they were made for each other, like a hand and glove, like a tailored suit, like puzzle pieces. Thorin had to wonder how he had _ever_ slept without Bilbo before.

            Taking another, deeper breath, Thorin slid a hand down Bilbo’s smooth back, inching his way to the gentle curve of Bilbo’s buttocks.

            “Good morning,” Thorin whispered; it was a good one in his opinion.

            “Morning,” Bilbo whispered in return.

            Bilbo sounded far too awake and for a second, Thorin worried that Bilbo hadn’t been as comfortable as Thorin had in the night.  “Did you sleep well?”  Thorin couldn’t resist asking.

            “Yes. Beautifully.”

            That relieved whatever worry Thorin had.  “Me too,” Thorin answered and couldn’t resist kissing Bilbo’s curly head.   Thorin wanted nothing more than to keep kissing Bilbo.

            But Bilbo was squirming.  “How about I make breakfast?”

            Thorin smiled to himself; Bilbo was such the sweetheart. “You don’t have to do that.” Thorin really didn’t want breakfast, he just wanted more of what they had last night and he tried to pull Bilbo closer.

            But Bilbo was moving away from him.  “I can make tea,” Bilbo said, finally extracting himself from Thorin’s embrace. “Or would you like coffee?” Bilbo was getting up, putting on his dressing gown.  “I can make coffee. And maybe French toast and eggs if you’d like, or …”

            “Bilbo,” Thorin chuckled.  Really Bilbo was too cute and Thorin thought that maybe Bilbo was embarrassed about sleeping together the first night they officially met.  He hoped not, in any case.   Thorin reached out, but Bilbo seemed determined not to be caught. “Bilbo, come back to bed.”

            “I have to make breakfast,” Bilbo insisted.

            That was when Thorin realized that Bilbo was not only staying out of Thorin’s reach but also refused to look at Thorin.  A heaving feeling settled in his chest, making it hard to breath at the moment and something occurred to him that made him feel a little sick. “Bilbo …” Thorin had to ask, finally able to get ahold of Bilbo’s wrist.  “Do you … do you regret last night?”

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo was wide-awake.  He’d been so since before the first rays of the sun bled around the edges of the pulled drapes.  A shiver, that had nothing to do with the cold, moved through him and he snuggled closer to the warmth that was Thorin’s body.  Still, it did nothing to stop his tremors.

            In the distance, Bilbo could hear faint birdsong.  He was reminded of Shakespeare’s _Romeo and Juliet_ , and the scene of the morning after their night together. Romeo says the bird they’d just heard was the Lark, announcing the approaching morning, while Juliet, on the other hand, insists that, no, it was the Nightingale, who sings to the moon; dawn is still far away.   Only when Juliet’s nurse knocks on her door, does reality dispel the fantasy; their night is over and they must part.

            Bilbo understood Juliet’s heartache; dawn has come and with it, he must tell Thorin he was leaving.

            Bilbo wanted to tell the birds to stop singing, wanted the sun to dim, wanted the night to come back; he didn’t want the morning to come.  He didn’t want to lose what he had found, what he had right next to him, what he felt honored and blessed to have been given.

            Thorin.

            As if awaken by Bilbo’s thoughts of him, Thorin stirred.   Bilbo held his breath as strong arms tightened slightly and Thorin pulled him closer. Bilbo closed his eyes, his face pressed to Thorin’s chest, his ear over Thorin’s heart, and he used all his will to pray that Thorin would slip back to sleep. 

            But no.

            Taking a breath and gently sliding a hand over Bilbo’s back, Thorin whispered, “Good morning.”

            “Morning.” Bilbo couldn’t bring himself to call it ‘good.’

            Thorin took a deeper breath, nuzzling into Bilbo’s hair. “Did you sleep well?”

            “Yes,” Bilbo whispered back.  “Beautifully.”  That was no lie.  For the first time in since his mother’s passing, Bilbo had slept feeling safe and warm.

            “Me too,” Thorin whispered back, planting a soft kiss on Bilbo’s head.

            Oh God, Bilbo felt awful!  How as he going to tell this man, this man he’d been waiting for, that – Bilbo couldn’t even think it.   Guilt and shame ate at him, he had no right to lay in Thorin’s arms when he was about to hurt the man. “How about I make breakfast?” Bilbo had to get up.

            “You don’t have to do that.”

            Thorin sounded so sweet, it just made Bilbo feel worse! “I can make tea,” Bilbo said, trying to get away.  “Or would you like coffee?” Bilbo spied his dressing gown on the foot of the bed and quickly got up and covered himself; his shame was making him feel exposed.  “I can make coffee.  And maybe French toast and eggs if you’d like, or …”

            “Bilbo.”  Thorin released a sleep-rough laugh.  “Bilbo, come back to bed.”

            _Oh God, I want to! But I … I just can’t do this!_ “I have to make breakfast,” Bilbo insisted.

            “Bilbo …” Thorin voice made Bilbo still and it was time enough for Thorin to grab Bilbo’s wrist and hold him there.  “Do you … do you regret last night?”

            “NO!” Bilbo was horrified at the thought. “Not at all!”

            “Then, why—”

            “Thorin, I …” Bilbo’s words stuck in his throat.  “I … it’s just … I don’t …”

            “Don’t what?”  Thorin looked confused perplexed.  “Don’t … don’t want this?”

            “Oh, God,” Bilbo couldn't say it!  He just couldn’t say that words that had to be spoken.   “You just … you just don’t understand.”

            “You’re right,” Thorin said, slowly pulling Bilbo to him. “But whatever it is, I want to understand.”

            Bilbo shook his head; it was too much, it was too much for his heart to take – Thorin being so calm and yet concerned, and Bilbo knew Thorin was concerned for him, for Bilbo, and that hurt even more.   Bilbo didn’t have the strength to resist anymore and Thorin pulled him into a tight, warm embrace, enveloping him, protectively.  Bilbo could only bury his face in Thorin’s chest and hide.

            “Wouldn’t you tell me?” Thorin whispered into Bilbo’s hair, planting another kiss there.

            Bilbo took a deep breath and told the truth.  “I’m leaving.”

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Thorin felt a dizziness come over him.  _I’m Leaving_ … Bilbo’s leaving … leaving what?  “How do you mean?” Was Bilbo leaving the apartment? Leaving Thorin? Was that even possible when they had only shared one night?  In what way was he –

            “I’m moving back home,” Bilbo whispered into Thorin’s chest.

            “Home?” Thorin parroted, not quite getting the idea; weren’t they in Bilbo’s home now?

            “I’m moving back to Hobbiton.”

            Thorin understood now.  “When?”

            Bilbo pulled back a bit but would not meet Thorin’s eyes. “The movers are coming today—”

            “Today?”

            “—and I'm taking the eight a.m. train tomorrow.”

            _Oh._    Every emotion Thorin had felt that morning bled away, leaving him feeling empty inside. Bilbo’s hitched voice and sniffle got his attention.

            “Thorin, I’m … I’m so sorry!”

            Bilbo’s face conveyed nothing but pain, and it was enough to rouse Thorin’s protective nature. Thorin pulled Bilbo back to him, holding Bilbo firmly but gently and cradling Bilbo’s head while he cried.   Thorin whispered softly, “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

            Bilbo disagreed apparently, nodding, “I never meant to hurt you.”

            Thorin was dying inside.  Bilbo once again showed his compassion; worrying for Thorin while he himself was suffering. Thorin held him tighter. “Can I take it you’re moving home for your grandfather?”

            Bilbo was genuinely surprised as he pulled back and looked at Thorin. “How did you know that?”

            Thorin could only smile sheepishly.  “I’m afraid young Charlie told us about why you were out of town.”

            “Oh,” Bilbo nodded but didn’t seem upset by that news.

            “Was this move something you have been planning for awhile?” Thorin had to wonder if that was the reason Bilbo had kept his name so secret.  Maybe Bilbo had never wanted to meet in person; their meeting the night before was clearly an accident.

            But Bilbo shook his head at the question.  “No.  Not at all.” Bilbo sat back and straightened up, taking a few breaths to calm himself.  However, he took both of Thorin’s hands in his own and was obviously not willing to let them go.  “You see, about six weeks ago, my mother passed away.”

            Thorin listened as Bilbo’s story for the last month and a half poured out. From his close relationship with Belladonna and the poor woman’s death and funeral, all the way to his planning on moving home and taking care of his elderly grandfather.  When it was over, Bilbo seemed sapped of his energy, drained finally of all that had been kept inside.

            Thorin now knew just how much Bilbo had been carrying on his shoulders and how much this decision to move home was hurting him, but Bilbo would not abandon his grandfather.

            Thorin also knew that he had to let Bilbo go.

            “Bilbo,” Thorin said, gently cupping Bilbo’s face.  “I’ll ask again … do you regret last night?”

            Bilbo shook his head, and whispered, “No.”

            “Neither do I,” Thorin said.  “You’re beautiful, and kind, and compassionate—”

            “How can you say that,” Bilbo asked, “after I’ve used you—”

            “You did no such thing.”

            “I did.  I did … I should have told you last night.”

            “And what do you think that would have done?”

            “You’d have had the option of walking away.”   

            “Never.” Thorin told no lie.

            “But if you’d known before hand—”

            “It wouldn’t have changed a thing,” Thorin said empathically. “I’d rather have had one night with you, than have lived my whole life without us knowing each other as we did last night.”

            Bilbo’s face crumpled, and he cried anew.  Thorin once again, gathered Bilbo close and held him.   It was tearing Thorin apart but he had to be strong, not for himself but for Bilbo.  Let Bilbo have his release, let him get the pain out, Thorin could do his grieving later, but right now, Bilbo needed him to be there, to be his rock, and dammit, he would do it for Bilbo.

            A loud knock broke the stillness of the flat.  Bilbo, his eyes red and his face tearstained and blotchy was in no condition to answer the door; Thorin would go.

            “Stay here,” Thorin said, giving Bilbo a swift kiss on the cheek, before calling out, “JUST A MINUTE.”   Thorin quickly grabbed his pants, put them on - he didn’t bother with a shirt - and then answered the door.

            The man in the hallway was momentarily startled by a half naked man answering his knock but recovered quickly.  “Mister Baggins?”

            “No,” Thorin said.  “He’s … just getting up.”

            “Oh,” The man nodded.  “I’m with MGR … I just came up to tell him we are setting up downstairs and will be ready to start in about half an hour.”

            “I’ll let him know,” Thorin said, closing the door after man nodded and headed back to the lifts.

            Thorin stood there a minute, taking a few breaths to collect himself; this was it.  The time had come. He walked back to the bedroom, Bilbo nowhere in sight but Thorin could hear the water running; Bilbo really was in the bathroom.  Grabbing his remaining clothing, Thorin dressed quickly and just as he was tying his shoes, Bilbo was finished.

            Thorin looked up and smiled.  Bilbo was dressed in plain jeans and a long sleeve tee shirt, his hair beautifully tousled and wearing round glasses; Thorin hadn’t noticed those last night, figuring maybe Bilbo wore contacts usually; Thorin liked them.

            Standing, Thorin suddenly had no idea what to do with his hands, deciding to stow them in his pockets.  “That was the movers.”

            “I heard,” Bilbo said softly.

            Neither of them moved, just stared at each other.  Thorin wondered if Bilbo was doing the same thing as him, wishing that the moment would stretch on forever.  Sadly, wishing never really came true.

            “I should go,” Thorin said finally.

            Bilbo nodded.

            Thorin slowly walked to the door, it felt like he was walking to the gallows. Bilbo followed close behind. As Thorin reached for the door handle, he felt Bilbo’s hand on his shoulder.

            “Thorin,” Bilbo whispered, sounding broken.

            It was all Thorin needed and he turned quickly, pulling Bilbo to him and sharing a desperate kiss.  Thorin tried to put into the kiss all he couldn’t bring himself to say aloud, _I want you, I’ll miss you, I hope you find happiness, Please be happy, I think … I think I could’ve loved you._   He hoped he got that across, because those words were all the things he felt from Bilbo, but Bilbo couldn’t say.

            How long they kissed, neither could say later, but finally they broke apart and Thorin, unable to look at Bilbo – because if he did he’d never leave – opened the door and left.

            It was only when he returned to his own flat, flopping into a chair and ignoring his harp, did he realize that he forgot something; his heart hadn’t come back with him.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Dwalin had had enough of waiting to hear from Thorin.  He’d texted, called, emailed, called again, even called that kid who fancied himself a doorman to see if Thorin was home. Finally, by late afternoon, Dwalin had had enough.

            His first knock on Thorin’s door went unanswered.  Fine, he waited a minute or so for Thorin to wake up or get out of the loo, then he knocked again.  His second knock received the same response as the first; nothing. With a heavy sigh, Dwalin used his fist this time and pretended he didn’t hear what sounded like the frame cracking.

            His third attempted got a response.

            “I’M SLEEPING!” Thorin growled out, but not coming to the door.

            “Then wake the fuck up and open the damn door!”

            Thorin finally did.  “What do you want?”

            “Nice to see you too,” Dwalin said dryly as he walked into Thorin’s flat. He turned as Thorin closed the door and didn’t like what he saw.  “Have you been drinking?”  Thorin’s eyes were bloodshot and the clothes he wore looked like they’d been slept in.

            “What are you?  My mother?” Thorin answered, his movements a bit slow.

            “No, I’m your cousin, you knob,” Dwalin answered.  “The same one who’s been worried about you.”

            “I’m fine,” Thorin snarled out and sat back down in his chair. Sure enough, Dwalin’s question was answered when Thorin lifted a bottle of beer and downed the remaining liquid. Judging from the other bottles on the table next to him, Thorin had started much earlier in the day.

            “What’s going on?” Dwalin asked.

            Thorin ignored him and, instead, stood up and went to the fridge, where he got out another bottle and cracked it open, taking a deep drink.

            “Jesus Christ, Thorin,” Dwalin hadn’t seen Thorin like this in a very long time. Not since all his troubles with Thranduil had started.  But Dwalin figured he knew what this was about.  “Does this have to do with that stalker guy?”

            Thorin whipped around and threw the bottle in his hand at Dwalin; Dwalin had only enough time to duck before the bottle smashed into the wall, about where Dwalin’s head was a moment before; for a man filled with alcohol, Thorin’s aim was pretty damn accurate.

            “DON’T FUCKING CALL HIM THAT!”  Thorin snarled out.  “If you call him that ONE MORE FUCKING TIME … I swear … I’ll shove every one of these bottles up your FUCKING ARSE!”

            Dwalin had a feeling that Thorin wasn’t half joking.  “What the hell happened?”

            Thorin deflated at the question.  “Last night we … we met … and …” Thorin began to stammer and his voice cracked. “… he and … we … he … he defended me and then … we … we made …”  What they made was lost as Thorin face contorted and he sank into his chair, weeping bitterly.

            Dwalin has no idea what to do for a moment, he was stunned; Thorin almost _never_ cried. It was unnerving and disconcerting for Dwalin to watch.  But even Dwalin could see that Thorin was in real pain and in the next moment he moved to Thorin’s side, pulling his cousin into a hug; what else could he do?

            Dwalin decided that it was best to let Thorin cry it out before asking, once more, what had happened.  Tentatively at first, Thorin eventually relented and let the floodgates open. For almost an hour, Thorin poured his heart out, telling Dwalin about the past week, the conference, Bilbo’s defense of Thorin to Thranduil, and their night together.  Oh sure, even drunk, Thorin kept a great many details of the night to himself, but Dwalin understood that.  It was the telling of the morning after and the unexpected turn of events that finally explained Thorin’s desolation.

            “I don’t get it,” Dwalin said, “why didn’t Bilbo just bring his grandfather to London?”

            Thorin scoffed at the idea.  “Would you do that?”  Thorin looked at Dwalin like he hadn’t gone insane.  “Think about your grandfather, Farin, would you have just packed him up when he was ninety-something and moved him out of the only place he’d called home, just so that you weren’t inconvenienced?”

            Dwalin didn’t answer that; he knew he wouldn’t have.  “Okay, I get it,” Dwalin said.  “But couldn’t you two still see each other? I mean, a train ride isn’t—”

            “And how long before that takes a toll on the relationship?” Thorin demanded. “How long before time and distance cause us to drift apart, or worse, for one to drift while the other grows even more attached?”

            “Yeah, but—”

            “But, what?!  What do you think will happen if and when I get a proper position?  It would be hard enough to for me to get back and forth every weekend on what little I make now, but when I work, I may have the money but not the time … it would be unfair and, once again, a strain.”

            “Maybe, but if your relationship is strong enough—”

            “Dwalin, this kind of distance issue is hard on an established relationship, but on a budding one, it’s a death knell!”

            Again, Dwalin couldn’t argue the point, but he wasn’t giving up either. “What about you moving to Hobbiton?”

            Thorin laughed out loud at that.  “Oh sure, you think there are a ton jobs for harpists in a small village like Hobbiton?”

            Dwalin didn’t have to answer that.

            “Maybe I could find a few kids to tutor,” Thorin continued. “But even that wouldn’t be enough. I’d end up living off Bilbo—”

            “I’ll bet you he wouldn’t mind.”

            “I would,” Thorin said firmly.  “I won’t add to his burdens.”

            Dwalin sighed.  “There has to be a solution.”

            “There is,” Thorin said.  “I have to let him go.”

            “It’s not right.”

            “No,” Thorin agreed.  “But it’s the honorable thing to do.”

            “Fuck honor,” Dwalin said.  “You two should be together.”

            “And in a perfect world,” Thorin said quietly, “we would be. But the world isn’t perfect; it doesn’t work that way.”

            They sat there in silence for several long seconds.  Dwalin had run out of ideas and Thorin had run out of hope.

            “Come on,” Thorin said, standing up and reaching for his jacket.

            “Where’re we going?” Dwalin stood, waiting for Thorin to lead.

            “We’re going to go get drunk,” Thorin stated honestly, heading for the door.

            Dwalin nodded; _why the hell not_.  “You mean drunker than you already are?”

            “You got it.”

            “What are we talking about?” Dwalin quipped as Thorin opened the door. “Drunk-enough-to-pass-out drunk, or drunk-enough-to-forget-Bilbo Baggins drunk?”

            Thorin stilled on the threshold of his flat for a second before turning to answer.  “The former … I can’t consume enough alcohol for the latter.”

 

\-----ooooo-----

           

            Ori was just finishing up tidying when the doorbell sounded. He figured that Bilbo would be beat – what with dealing with the movers all day and the stress of moving his whole life home – so he had ordered Thai take-away, chilled a bottle of wine and thought that watching Ab-Fab on Blu-ray would make for a nice, relaxing evening.

            “Just a sec!”  Ori called out as he scooped up his loose shoes and shoved them into the hall closet.   “Hey there!” he said as he opened his front door.

            “Hello,” Bilbo replied, walking in, looking just as tired and worn out as Ori had expected.

            “How were the movers?” Ori asked, closing the door and then reaching for Bilbo’s over night bag; Bilbo let Ori take it without a word of protest.

            “Fine,” Bilbo said, nodding.  “It went very smoothly and they even boxed up stuff I'd decided not to take and took it to the nearest charity shop.”

            “That was nice of them,” Ori said.

            Bilbo kicked off his shoes and removed his jacket.  “Are you sure you don’t mind me staying?”

            “Will you stop that!”

            “I just mean … I don’t want you to feel you need to babysit me. You must want to go see that guy you’re dating.”

            “I’m not babysitting ... I’m spending the night with my best friend,” Ori said brightly.  “Besides, Dwalin’s kind of busy himself … he’s cousin isn’t doing so hot and he texted saying he was spending the night with him.”

            Bilbo nodded again.  “Mind if I take a shower?”

            “Of course not!”  Ori thought the question was ridiculous; Bilbo could have the run of place.  But something suddenly caught his eye, Bilbo didn’t look so great. “Are you okay?”

            “Yeah,” Bilbo said, not looking at Ori.  “I’m fine.”

            Ori knew that tone of voice; Bilbo was not fine.  But he let it go for the moment.  “Go shower.  I’ll heat up the food and pour us some wine.”

            “Right,” Bilbo said, heading to the bathroom.

            Forty minutes later, as they sat on the cough, Ori was convinced more than ever that Bilbo was not okay.  Sure, anyone else would write off Bilbo’s increasingly monosyllabic responses and evasive replies as Bilbo just being tired, but Ori knew Bilbo too well for that.

            “What’s wrong,” Ori asked, having watched Bilbo push his Pad Thai round on the plate for the last ten minutes.

            “Nothing,” Bilbo said, putting his plate down on the coffee table and picking up his wine glass to take a very, deep drink from.

            “Bullshit.”

            “Ori, please—”

            “No. Don’t try and lie to me. I know you.”  Ori just sat there, waiting, until finally Bilbo release a heavy sigh and turned indescribably sad eyes towards his friend.

            “I finally met Thorin,” Bilbo whispered.

            Ori wanted to be ecstatic, but the look in Bilbo’s eyes told him that would be inappropriate.  “And? What happened?”

            Bilbo didn’t say a word, he took a hitched breath and then burst into tears. Ori had just enough time to catch Bilbo in his arms before his best friend crumpled in his grief. Ori didn’t need details at that point.

            “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” Ori said soothingly, himself on the verge of tears for his friend.  “I’m so sorry.”

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            A phone was ringing.  At least, Thorin thought it was a phone, he couldn’t really distinguish it from the pounding in his head. The phone stopped but a loud, rumbling snore sounded next to him and Thorin turned to see Dwalin, wearing only his underpants, and drooling into one of Thorin’s pillows, sprawled out in Thorin’s bed.

            “Fuck,” Thorin groaned out, using what energy he had to sit up.   His stink-breath cousin, snoring like an asthmatic walrus, was not the person Thorin wanted, _ever_ , to wake up next to.

            No. Who he wanted next to him was now long gone.

            The phone rang again and Thorin’s head throbbed with each shrill of the damn thing!

            “SHUT UP!” Thorin growled out, but strangely enough the phone ignored him and kept ringing. Forcing himself to stand and almost blindly search for the cursed phone, he found it in the folds of his own discarded clothes.  Thorin had to shake his head to focus his eyes enough to see the ‘answer’ icon on the screen. “What?” he greeted the other person.

            A soft chuckle sounded before a deep voice said, “And good morning to you.”

            Thorin knew he was hung over but was sure he knew that voice. At least, he thought he knew it. “Who is this?”

            “Gandalf Grey.”

            _Oh, yeah._ Thorin didn’t remember giving Grey his number but at the moment he couldn’t care enough to … well, care. “How do you do.”

            “Better than you at moment, apparently.”

            Thorin couldn’t deny that.

            “I wondered,” Gandalf said, amusement in his voice. “If you would be able to meet me, in the coffee shop around the corner from your building, in about an hour.”

            Thorin didn’t have to think on that one.  “I doubt I’ll be able—”

            “I have a proposition for you.”

            Thorin almost rolled his eyes.  “I’m flattered, but you’re not quite my type, Mister Grey.”

            “Yes, I know,” Gandalf said dryly.  “I put _your type_ on the train to Hobbiton this morning.”

            That woke Thorin up.  “You saw Bilbo?”

            “Yes. I just got back from the station.”

            Thorin felt a pain in his chest.  “How … how was he?”

            There was silence for a minute, before Gandalf said quietly, “Miserable.”

            Despite the last night’s binge and his currently pounding headache, Thorin wanted to cry at that thought of Bilbo hurt, alone and too far away for Thorin to comfort.

            Bilbo was lost to him completely.

            “ _Mister Durin_ ,” Gandalf said firmly.

            Thorin realized that not only was he actually crying, but also that Gandalf had said his name several times because Thorin had been silent for a few minutes. “I’m … I’m sorry.”

            “Thorin,” Gandalf said more gently.  “I ask you again to meet me in an hour.”

            “I don’t think—”

            “Life is full of choices,” Gandalf said slowly.  “And right now, you have a choice.  But I urge you, if you wish to find what _you have lost_ , you will meet me in one hour.”

            Thorin’s head was pounding but this time, it was not from his hangover. “I’m on my way!”

 

 

 


	14. Giocoso

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GIOCOSO - cheerful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this ... but i had to share it with you all 
> 
> (this is unedited at the moment ... tomorrow I will clean it up ... forgive me my [typo] sins)

* * *

 

 

            “Are you _sure_ you’re all right?”

            “Yes.”

            “You do realize, I know you’re lying.”

            “Yes.”

            “Why don’t you call him at least?”

            Bilbo frowned for a moment, finally breaking his unreadable expression. “And say what? ‘Gee, Thorin, thanks for everything. Sorry I used you and hurt you badly. Have a great life.’”

            Gandalf sighed. “Bilbo—”

            “I won’t hurt him further by dragging it out.”

            “And what about your hurt?”

            “I told you ... I’m all right.”

            “You’re not.”

            Bilbo shrugged.  “I can pretend.”

            There was a sudden chiming shrill, then a disembodied voice said,  _‘The next train on platform five, is the eight o’clock Cross Country Service to Hobbiton. Calling upon Michel Delving, Waymeet and Bywater.’_

            “That’s me,” Bilbo said quietly, as he picked up his small bag and turned to Gandalf. “Thank you for the ride.  I guess I'll see you soon?”

            Gandalf was pained at the hurt and misery etched on Bilbo’s face. “I have a project that I'm working on," Gandalf stated, "But I will try and stop by as soon as I can."  Gandalf took a breath and said, firmly, "You know ... you can still change your mind.”

            Bilbo actually laughed at that.  “Yes, I’m sure that Grandpa would be _more than happy_ to live out the rest of his life in a care home.”

            “He would if you told him—”

            “Don’t you dare breathe a word to him!” Bilbo snapped.  “It’s bad enough that I’ve hurt Thorin, I won’t add Grandpa to the list of people whose lives I’ve wrecked.”

            “And what of your own life, Bilbo?”

            Bilbo stilled and the empty expression returned to his face. “What life?”

            Bilbo walked off, leaving a very conflicted and guilty Gandalf behind. Part of him wished he had followed Gerontius’ wishes and not told Bilbo of Belladonna’s plans. But Bilbo would have found out eventually and probably have been more upset that he'd been lied to for even longer. And Gandalf felt badly for Thorin. He hadn’t needed to be in the man’s presence to know that Thorin had been, unfairly, on short end of the stick for most of his professional life.

            Bilbo and Thorin deserved a chance, both at love and at a better life; a chance that Gandalf had been considering, might even have the power to bring about, but hadn’t been sure of.  Would everyone go for the idea?  Did it rely on too many unpredictable variables?  And he worried that he was only doing it for Bilbo, despite that it was perfect for all involved.  Well, after witnessing the spectacle at the conference the night before, and having pieced together what happened afterwards from the bits and pieces that Bilbo let slip, he now knew the answer to that question; the idea was perfect for everyone.  It just happened that, if all agreed, Bilbo would well find happiness too.

            He made two phone calls as he walked out of the train station. The first to Elrond and his daughter, stating that he finally found the perfect candidate and the second to Thorin Durin. 

            With most of the major players either agreeing or moving in the right direction, Gandalf smiled to himself as the wheels of his scheme began to turn.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

**_TWO WEEKS LATER_ **

****

Once he'd arrived in Hobbiton, Bilbo had been far too busy to wallow in his guilt and misery that first day.  Boxes were packed at the care home, the last papers were signed, Grandpa bid his nurses and friends at the home good-bye and before the afternoon was out, Gerontius was unpacking his things in his new room at Bag End. Bilbo had been able to procure Gerontius’ old bed from storage as well as his favorite chair that had followed him to and from the care home. 

            By dinnertime that first Sunday, Bilbo had unpacked and put away is own clothes as well as everything from his London kitchen.  His books and other bric-a-brak were still boxed but they could wait for the next day.  Bilbo and Gerontius sat together at the dinner table and enjoyed their first home cooked meal in the house together.

            The next few weeks whirled by as both Bilbo and Gerontius fell into a routine. Bilbo got up at seven, put the kettle on, woke his grandfather, set up everything Gerontius needed in the bathroom, then went and made the tea, started the eggs boiling – both liked hardboiled eggs – and getting out the bread for toast and either ham or sausages, went back to wake Gerontius again because the elderly man was like a teenager not wanting to get up for school and assisted him into the bathroom, finished and ate breakfast with his grandfather, argued with Gerontius about cleaning up after the meal, won the argument, showered and cleaned up himself, settled Gerontius in the parlour or wherever the elderly man wanted to be at that moment, and then sat down at his computer and started work by nine-fifteen with his second cup of tea nearby.  By six at night, Bilbo was finished with work, he and Gerontius took a leisurely walk around the neighborhood, Bilbo cooked dinner on their return, they enjoyed a card or board game after dinner or watched old black and white movies with Gerontius falling asleep in his chair; the signal it was time for bed.  

            It was comfortable and predictable.

            What wasn’t always predictable was the way Thorin would creep into his mind, his thoughts, bringing Bilbo to a complete standstill – even in the middle of making breakfast or tea.  Bilbo always felt a utter rush of guilt coupled with crippling yearning to see Thorin, talk to him, hold him, kiss him, _just be with him_.  It always took several long seconds to minutes to come out of these states.  Gerontius would ask what was wrong but Bilbo would only smile and tell his grandfather that he was simply remembering something he forgot.

            Some _one_ he was trying _to forget_ really, but Bilbo never said that.

            And Bilbo’s longing for Thorin was worse at night, when he was sitting alone and he realized that the silence was oppressive; there was no harp to sooth his heart and ease his soul.  There was no unspoken words played by deft finger or notes left for him that hinted at what could have been.

            Bilbo thought that time would ease the hurt and dull the pain, turn his memories into something less bitter, but after weeks of deluding himself, there was no denying the truth; time was only making it worse.

            It was on his third Sunday back home - Bilbo just putting breakfast on the table - when a knock on the front door sounded, loudly, through the house.

            Not expecting anyone, Bilbo was surprised to see Gandalf on his doorstep.

            “What are you doing here?” Bilbo asked perplexed.  He thought Gandalf was busy on some project or other.

            “Is it so strange for an old friend to drop by for a visit?” Gandalf asked with almost mock affront.

            Bilbo just cocked an eyebrow.  “Anyone else and I’d say no.  But you?”

            “You’re too suspicious,” Gandalf said with a chuckle and then sniffled the air.  “I say, is that ham I smell?”

            Bilbo rolled his eyes but was amused nonetheless; Gandalf always seemed to arrive just as food was finished.  “Come in your old mooch.  You can join us for breakfast.”

            “I’d hate to intrude,” Gandalf said even as he stepped inside and quickly removed his coat.

            “Yeah … right,” Bilbo shook his head.  “Go eat.”

            Gandalf made himself at home, while Bilbo bustled about making more food. He would’ve sworn he heard his grandfather and Gandalf whispering to each other but every time Bilbo came into the dining room, they stopped, both looking far too innocent to be so. Bilbo huffed to himself; those two were worse than his little cousins, Merry and Pippin.  Why, if he were pressed, it would be hard to say which pair was more likely to cause a shitload of trouble; it was a toss-up really.

            When breakfast was over and Bilbo was relaxing at the table, enjoying his second cup of tea and picking at the cinnamon crumb cake, Gandalf suddenly slapped his hands together and asked, “You know what would be lovely?”

            “Your absence?” Bilbo said sweetly.

            Gerontius snickered and Gandalf ignored Bilbo’s snark.  “I was thinking more along the lines of a drive in the country,” Gandalf announced with a smile.

            Bilbo was confused now.  “Didn't you just drive through the country to get here?”

            “I drove from the south,” Gandalf corrected.  “I’d be heading east this time; totally different view.”

            “Okay,” Bilbo shook his head; it made no sense to him, but who was he to argue. “I’m sure Grandpa would love to get out.”  Clearly that was what they were whispering about, Gerontius’ escape and whatever trouble—

            “I think I’ll go back to bed,” Gerontius announced, avoiding Bilbo’s startled look.

            “But it’s only nine o’clock in the morning!” Bilbo didn’t understand; his grandfather just got up!

            “Well then,” Gandalf said with a broad smile, “looks like it'll just be me and you, Bilbo.”

            “What?!” Bilbo almost spit out his tea. “I have to clean up—”

            “I can do it,” Gerontius said.

            “—and I need to do laundry—”

            “It can wait,” Gandalf added.

            “—and I thought about weeding out the rose garden this afternoon—”

            “There’s always tomorrow,” Gerontius said.

            “—and who will watch Grandpa while I’m away?”

            “The Gamgees can check on me,” Gerontius insisted.

            _What the hell was going on?_ Bilbo had no clue what these two were up to.  “I don’t really need—”

            “You should get out,” Gandalf said.

            “You’ve been cooped up too long,” Gerontius said, wearing a serious look and nodding.

            “ _Cooped up_?!”  Bilbo repeated like it was foreign phrase.  “I’ve only been back two weeks?!  How _'cooped up'_ do you think I am in that time?!”

            “You’re clearly stressed,” Gandalf said.

            “Completely run down,” Gerontius stated.

            “Stressed and run down?!”  Bilbo gaped.

            “You’re getting all snippy and snarky,” Gandalf said.

            “BECAUSE YOU TWO ARE DRIVING ME MENTAL!”

            “See,” Gerontius pointed at Bilbo with his teaspoon.  “Now you’re getting all defensive.  You need fresh air and sunshine.”

            “You need to get out and enjoy a relaxing drive,” Gandalf said definitively.

            Bilbo gave up.  “Fine! Fine.  I’ll go for a fucking relaxing drive in the fucking country.” He stood up, shaking his head at the two elderly men and headed to get his shoes.  But Gandalf’s voice stopped him dead.

            “Are you really going to wear that?”

            “OH MY GOD!” Bilbo growled out as he walked out of the dining room, but again, gave up and changed into nicer jeans and a grass colored polo shirt.   After putting on an old pair of Lodger Desert Boots, he was ready to go. “Is THIS acceptable?” Bilbo snarked when he met Gandalf in the foyer.

            Gandalf looked Bilbo up and down for a few seconds before nodding and handing Bilbo his wine colored blazer that hung by the door. “I think that will do.”

            Bilbo rolled his eyes.

            “Have fun!” Gerontius called out.

            Bilbo didn’t know about him having fun, but he worried that his Grandfather would have way too much fun on his own; he didn’t want to imagine what the house would look like when he got back.

            Bilbo was pained to admit it but not twenty minutes later, as Gandalf’s Jag was rolling smoothly down the road, heading east out of Hobbiton, he did feel more relaxed. The scenery was lovely, with gentle rolling hills and fields, broken here and there by tight copses of trees. The sky was a brilliant blue with only a few wispy clouds.

            He allowed himself to think of Thorin and wondered, not really for the first time, what it would have been like to take walks with Thorin in and around the countryside of Hobbiton.  Maybe Thorin would bring a harp and play for Bilbo like Orpheus, charming even the tress to bend and be near the music.

            “You’re a million miles away,” Gandalf said quietly.

            “Just …” Bilbo searched for the right words.  “Daydreaming.”

            “Should I guess what you are dreaming about?” Gandalf asked. “Or, rather, _who_ you are dreaming about?”

            “No you should not,” Bilbo said firmly.  “What you _should do_ , is tell me what this is all about.  Is my grandfather so sick of my presence already that he conspired to get rid of me?”

            “Absolutely not,” Gandalf said empathically.  “And don’t even think such things.  Your grandfather adores you, Bilbo and to think anything else is frankly terrible.”

            Bilbo felt simultaneously proud and guilty.  “All right then ... why the sudden—”

            “I just wanted to get out,” Gandalf interjected, “and thought it would be a nice drive.”

            “Okay,” Bilbo figured he needed to let his suspicions go.

            “Not to mention I wanted to show you something.”

            Bilbo huffed a laugh.  Of course Gandalf had something up his sleeve.

            About ten minutes later, Gandalf turned off the main road, heading a bit southeasterly. The new road proceeded through the old forest, until about five minutes later, the forest opened up and Bilbo could see an large, old Victorian estate house set about two kilometers off the road.

            “What’s going on?” Bilbo asked, sitting up straighter as the car turned onto the estate’s long drive.

            “What I wanted to show you,” Gandalf said enigmatically but said no more.

            Bilbo remembered the old house.  It had always reminded him of Tyntesfield but without the love and attention the other received.  In fact, the last time he saw it, as a teenager, there hadn’t been a window intact, the roof looked questionable at best, the grounds were overgrown and he wondered when someone was going to buy the land and tear the house down.

            Now the house looked breathtaking.  Clipped and orderly lawn, bright beautiful plantings, the walls scrubbed clean and gleaming with a golden hue, the windows repaired and the whole thing a vision.  Bilbo was stunned.

            As the pulled up towards the front, Bilbo saw a large, ornate sign that said:

 

**RIVENDELL ACADEMY FOR THE ARTS**

“What’s Rivendell?” Bilbo asked as Gandalf came to a stop.

            “As the sign said,” Gandalf commented, turning the engine off and getting out with Bilbo.  “It’s a school that focuses on the arts.”

            “Yes, I see that,” Bilbo said exasperated.  “I meant like the history, who runs it, what’s its goal, that kind of thing.”

            “It’s owned and run by an old friend of mine,” Gandalf said, coming to stand next to Bilbo.  “Elrond Riven and his daughter, Arwen, are headmaster and deputy headmistress respectfully. While the school is basically a prep school and offers traditional courses of study … mathematics, history, science, etc. … their true focus is on the arts … drama, music, singing, writing, and so forth.  The idea was to create a school for those gifted in such areas.”

            Bilbo was amazed; he’d wished he’d had such a school to attend to when he was growing up.  He would have loved to have developed his creative writing when he was younger, as he always dreamed.

            “Shall we go in?” Gandalf suggested, heading for the doors.

            “They won’t mind us just … dropping by?” Bilbo asked, following behind.

            “I can’t imagine they would,” Gandalf said.  “Besides, there are no active students as of yet; the beginning of the school year doesn’t begin for another two weeks.”

            Walking through the front doors, Bilbo was impressed by the size of the place but yet how warm, inviting and homely the large house felt. It did indeed feel like a home rather than a school.  He did see what he thought were students walking about but Gandalf stated that they were, in fact, interns and assistants for the staff.  He also saw a great many workmen about.

            “Gandalf!” a deep, friendly voice sounded behind them.

            Bilbo turned and saw a tall man with dark hair and warm brown eyes approaching, accompanied by one of the most beautiful women Bilbo had ever seen. He quickly surmised that these two must be Elrond and his daughter.

            “I hope you don’t mind my impromptu visit,” Gandalf said with a laugh.

            “You know you are always welcome,” the man said before turning to Bilbo and offering a hand.  “And who is this?”

            “Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo said, shaking the man’s hand.

            “Elrond Riven,” the man said, confirming Bilbo’s suspicions. “It’s a pleasure to met you.”

            “Thank you,” Bilbo said smiling.

            “And may I present my daughter, Arwen,” Elrond gestured to the young lady next to him.

            “A pleasure,” Bilbo said, taking Arwen’s offered hand.

            “And mine as well, Mister Baggins,” Arwen stated gracefully.

            “You’ve both done a wonderful job here,” Bilbo said, gesturing to the grand house around them.  “I remember as a boy it looking more like a haunted mansion.”

            Elrond smiled at that.  “It took some time, but it was worth the extra care and attention.”

            “How long has the school been open?” Bilbo asked.

            “They just completed the restoration,” Gandalf stated.

            “Oh!” Bilbo was amazed.  “It feels like you’ve been here for ages.  You really did do a great job!”

            “Thank you,” Elrond said again.  “However, the building is far less important than the staff; getting the right people is paramount for our students.”

            “I can imagine.”  Bilbo could. If they spent as much as he guessed renovating the old place – and his mind still couldn’t got that high – he thought they must want the best people.  “Gandalf was telling me about  your curriculum.”

            Both Elrond and Arwen nodded.   

            “So many schools, public and private, forget about the arts,” Arwen said, sounding a bit sad.

            “Too many feel that the study of artistic expression is either not worth the money or unworthy completely,” Elrond stated, sound disappointed. “Too many in western society place momentary value on only those subjects that can produce monetary gain.”

            “Sad to say,” Bilbo stated, “But you're right.”

            “Are you in the arts, Mister Baggins?” Arwen asked.

            “Me?” Bilbo replied incredulous.  “No. Not really.” At Arwen’s confused look, he clarified. “I work as an editor for Bloomsbury in London and, I hope, someday to write my own work, but …”

            “Writing is a noble art,” Elrond stated.  “Don’t discount your gifts.”

            “Do you play any instruments?” Arwen asked.

            “No. Not at all,” Bilbo answered. “It’s something I regret.”

            “It’s never to late,” Gandalf added.

            “Indeed,” Elrond said.  “Arwen is not only one of our vocal teachers, but she teaches wind instruments, particularly the flute.”

            “If you’d ever like to learn …” Arwen said with a smile.

            “I thank you for the offer,” Bilbo said, “But I have to admit, I am more drawn to the string instruments … the harp is my favorite.” Bilbo specifically avoided Gandalf’s gaze as he knew the elderly man was smirking at him.

            “You like the harp?” Arwen said brightly.  “You should meet our Music History/Music Theory teacher. He is truly blessed with a gift.”

            “Really?” Bilbo said kindly.  However, he doubted anyone could compare to Thorin.

            “Oh, yes,” Arwen said, totally missing the doubt in Bilbo’s voice. “I’ve never heard the harp played with such passion, such emotion.”

            “Arwen is correct,” Elrond stated.  “He is amazing.”

            “In fact …” Arwen said, looking passed Bilbo, “Here he comes now.”

            Bilbo turned around and in that moment felt the Earth shift. _It can’t be! It isn’t possible! Dreams don’t come true!_ In the next moment, he was running.

            “THORIN!”

            Thorin had been heading towards the group, head down, carrying a stack of papers in one hand and reading a single paper in the other. But at Bilbo’s cry, he stilled, gape mouthed, until Bilbo was sprinting down the hall. Thorin tossed the papers aside, dozens of sheets fluttering to the ground, but he clearly didn’t care because he was stepping forward, arms outstretched, catching Bilbo as he flung himself into Thorin’s arms and wrapping his own around Thorin’s neck; both of them pulling the other into a deep, passionate kiss.

            They were too absorbed in each other to hear a couple of the workmen wolf whistle in amusement, nor did they see or hear the two female teachers to one side; the first wearing a smug look while she turned to the others and said, ‘I told you he was,’ while the other pouted, pulled out a ten pound note and slapped it into the outstretched hand of the first.

            The kiss lasted an eternity, at least to Bilbo is seemed that way, but all too soon, they pulled apart, both laughing but not releasing the other one, resting their foreheads together.

            “What are you doing here?!”  Thorin whispered clinging tightly to Bilbo’s back.

            “I was going to ask you the same thing!” Bilbo whispered back, locking his hands behind Thorin’s neck, not willing to let go.

            “Am I safe to assume you both know each other?” Elrond said, sounding like he was going to start giggling like Arwen was doing at the moment.

            Thorin stiffened, clearly realizing they were standing in the middle of the hallway surrounded by workmen, teachers and other staff members. “Mister Riven, I’m … I’m terribly sorry, but, you have to understand—”

            Elrond held up a hand to stop Thorin.  “I think I get it,” Elrond said, smiling and giving the couple a wink. “Thorin, why don’t you give Mister Baggins here the full tour, while we show Gandalf around.”

            Thorin smiled sheepishly but still refused to release Bilbo. Taking Bilbo’s hand, Thorin started to led Bilbo away, when Elrond’s voice stopped Bilbo in his tracks.

            “Well, Gandalf,” Elrond quipped.  “You did say Thorin would be a refreshing addition to the staff.”

            “Wait a minute!” Bilbo said, giving Gandalf an incredulous look. “Thorin’s here because of you?!”

            Gandalf hummed to himself but didn’t look at Bilbo as he answered, “I might have … nudged him out the door a bit.”

 

 

 


	15. Sempre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEMPRE - Always
> 
> \------------
> 
> As far as Gerontius, Bilbo and Thorin were concerned ... this is how is should be ... always

* * *

 

 

            Thorin led Bilbo through the school.  He showed Bilbo classrooms, the dining hall, the kitchen, the auditorium – which was the old ballroom – and even looked out over the grounds from the large terrace on the back of the estate. 

            But nothing was as interesting as Thorin’s office. And the privacy it provided.

            Surrounded by boxes and books, Thorin sat on the corner of the huge, oak desk, legs spread wide so that he could have Bilbo close to him; and Bilbo was not about to complain. Arms wrapped around the other, neither worried about the passing of time or where the others had gone; only for each other.

            “I can’t believe you’re here,” Thorin whispered between languorous kisses.

            “That’s the second time,” Bilbo replied, smiling, against Thorin’s lips, “that you have said something I was going to ask you myself.”

            Thorin hummed out a laugh.  “You can thank your friend, Grey.”

            Bilbo pulled back and gave Thorin a questioning look.  “And what, exactly, did he do or say?”

            Thorin got a cheeky smile on his face.  “He tried to pick me up and then ordered me to meet him for coffee.”

            “WHAT?!”

            Thorin laughed out right.  “Just kidding.”

            “You better be,” Bilbo said, wearing a mock scowl and lightly punching Thorin in the chest.  “I’ll kick his arse if he goes after you.”

            “Never fear,” Thorin said, leaning forward and kissing the side of Bilbo’s neck. “He’d have zero chance if he did.” Thorin sat back and sighed, clearly happy to have Bilbo with him.   “However, he did truly order me to meet him.  That’s when he told me of this school and that the Rivens were looking for a Music History and Theory teacher.  After that, it was just a matter of meeting Elrond and Arwen, playing for them and talking about my experience.”

            “I had no idea you were a teacher,” Bilbo said. 

            “Technically … I’m not,” Thorin confessed.

            “Then … how—”

            “I have a degree in music and I also took most of the classes to become a teacher; I thought I had to become one if I ever wanted to tutor kids.”

            Bilbo nodded, then asked,  “But you don’t have to be?”

            “Not if I were just tutoring them in how to play Harp,” Thorin clarified. “And I don’t have to be certified to teach in a private school like this … only if I wanted to teach in public school system.”

            “Oh, I see,” Bilbo said.

            “However,” Thorin continued.  “Elrond would like all his teachers to be certified, and since I only have a few more courses to take in order to sit for the exam, he hired me with the understanding that I will be getting my certificate within a year. I’ve already started taking a couple of the courses online.”

            “That’s wonderful!” Bilbo was thrilled.  “I’m so proud of you!”

            Thorin smiled softly.  “Are you?”

            “Of course I am!” Bilbo seemed aghast.  “Certification would be a worthy accomplishment and it may well open up even more offers and opportunities for you.  Plus, this position is a wonderful chance for you to pass your considerable talent on to a whole new generation of students!”

            Thorin just shook his head.  “You barely know me and yet you're still my champion.”

            Bilbo blushed at the compliment.  “I like to think I know you a little better than ‘barely.’”

            Thorin nodded.  “You’re right. It does feel that I have known you for years, not just weeks.”

            That earned Thorin a deep, passionate snog!  

            “So …” Thorin whispered as they reluctantly pulled apart. “what do we do now?”   

            Bilbo expression turned contemplative, as if wrestling with something. “Do you have plans for this evening?”

            Thorin smiled cheekily. “What’ve you mind?”

            Bilbo’s contemplative look returned.   He took a breath, held it moment and sighed.  “I know we … we just said it felt longer … but I also know we’ve really just met, and … and that it’s still very early … I mean … I don’t want to rush anything, and … I don’t what you to feel you’re obligated or that it’s required, but—”

            “I’d love to meet your grandfather,” Thorin said softly, guessing where Bilbo was heading in the conversation.

            Bilbo blushed but released a laugh as a smiled spread on his face. “That’s … that’s wonderful. So … dinner tonight then?”

            “Absolutely,” Thorin said.

            “Very good.”  Bilbo looked more than pleased. Finally glancing at his watch, “Shall we go find the others?”

            Thorin slowly shook his head, pulling Bilbo to him.  “We still have more to discuss.”

            Bilbo tightened his arms around Thorin’s neck.  “Do we?”  Bilbo was hoping the discussion went where he wanted it to go.

            Thorin just leaned forward and took Bilbo’s lips for his own. It was just this kind of conversation that Bilbo thought he and Thorin should have daily – and often!

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Bilbo repositioned the flatware, for the umpteenth time, stepped back, looked at the table from different angles, thought about it, then stepped up and repositioned the flatware once again.

            “Do you need glue?” Gerontius said from the arched entry into the dining room.

            “What?” Bilbo turned around, perplexed.

            “Obviously, the forks and spoons keep moving about,” Gerontius quipped dryly.

            “Oh, ha ha,” Bilbo replied, looking back at the table and adjusting one errand spoon before walking away; pointedly ignoring his grandfather’s snickering.

            “You know,” Gerontius said, following behind Bilbo as he walked into the kitchen, “he isn’t going to care if there is even flatware on the table, let alone how far apart the pieces are from one another.”

            “I care,” Bilbo said, taking a bread knife and cutting thick slices from the fresh baguette he got from the baker around the corner.

            Gerontius shook his head, but smiled as he left Bilbo to his fussing and made his way to the living room, there to sit by the fire.  It wasn’t really cold enough to warrant a fire, but Bilbo thought just a small one would add a nice touch to the ambiance.

            And Bilbo had been all about ambiance since his return from Rivendell Academy. Gerontius had to work very hard all day to suppress his laughter as Bilbo ran about the house, dusting, cleaning, picking-up, rearranging furniture and knick-knacks, fluffy pillows, and generally complaining that the house was a _‘total disaster’_ and worrying, _‘what will Thorin think?!’_ Gerontius had never met the boy, but from Gandalf had told him, this Thorin didn’t strike him as the type to give a rat’s arse if Bilbo lived in a pigsty or a sterile environment.

            The sudden chime of the door bell, followed by a few firm knocks, proceeded Bilbo coming out of the kitchen, practically sprinting through the living room - jumping over the footstool that Gerontius had his feet propped upon – while crying, “I’VE GOT IT!”

            As if Gerontius had any doubt as to Bilbo’s reason for his mad dash for the front door.

            “Hi!” Bilbo said, a little breathlessly, as he greeted Thorin.

            “Hello,” Thorin said softly.

            “Please come in,” Bilbo urged gentle.

            “Thank you,” Thorin said, turning as Bilbo closed the door and faced him, and giving Bilbo a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek.  “These are for you.”  Bilbo smiled as Thorin handed him a large bouquet of wild flowers. “I hope you don’t mind, but the fields around the school are filled with these and I thought … well, I hoped anyway … that you—”

            “Their beautiful,” Bilbo said.  He actually loved the look of natural flowers around Hobbiton, one of the reasons he loved to go for walks in and around the village.  “Thank you.”

            Thorin smiled, a little red in his cheeks.  “And this is for dinner,” Thorin said as he produced a bottle of French red.

            “It’s perfect,” Bilbo hadn’t told Thorin what he was making and found it ironic that Thorin had picked the most appropriate wine.  “I made Boeuf Bourguignon for dinner.”

            Thorin’s eyes lit up.  “Isn’t that what you left me to eat that one time?”

            “Actually,” Bilbo said, “That was just an inexpensive stew I threw together.”

            “That was pretty amazing for being _‘thrown together.’_ ”

            “This time, I thought I would really show you I could cook.”

            “Careful there,” Gerontius said, coming up behind the couple. “He’ll fatten you up in no time, if you give him half a chance.”

            Bilbo blushed but Thorin just laughed, saying, “I’d gladly give him more than half the chance.”

            Bilbo blushed so hard, his ears turned red but he smiled nonetheless. “Thorin,” Bilbo said, “I’d like you to meet my grandfather—”

            “Gerontius Took,” the elderly man said, holding out a hand to Thorin.

            “Thorin Durin,” taking Gerontius’ hand, Thorin gave a small bow. “At your service, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

            “Like wise,” Gerontius stated. 

            “Why don’t you two have a seat in the living room,” Bilbo said, taking Thorin’s arm and steering him into the front parlour.  “Dinner will be ready very soon.  Would you like something to drink?”

            “I’ll have an ale,” Gerontius said, taking his former seat by the fireplace and propping his feet up again.

            “Thorin?” Bilbo asked as he pressed Thorin into a chair opposite of Gerontius.

            “I’ll have the same as Mister Took,” Thorin said.

            “That’s Gerontius to you, young man,” Gerontius quipped, giving Thorin a wink.

            “Yes, _sir_ ,” Thorin replied cheekily, which earned him a laugh from Bilbo and an eye roll from Gerontius.

            Bilbo returned with their drinks and then retreated back to the kitchen.

            “How are you settling in?” Gerontius asked.

            “Very well, thank you, sir,” Thorin said.

            “Gandalf says you’re frightfully good at that instrument of yours,” Gerontius said.

            “That’s kind of him,” Thorin replied.

            “I’d love to hear you play.”

            “I’m afraid I didn’t bring an instrument with me, but I promise to bring one next time … if I’m invited back, of course.”

            “Oh, I don’t think there is much doubt about that.”

            Thorin flushed, smiling to himself.

            Gerontius had seen enough, and knew that Gandalf was not exaggerating on the affection Thorin and Bilbo shared; it was quite clear for all to see. And judging from the little things he said and did, Thorin obviously wanted to make a good impression to secure the elderly man’s favor.  Gerontius decided that it was time to put Thorin out of his misery.

            “You know,” Gerontius said quietly, “just watching you and Bilbo together, one would gather I should be giving you ‘the shovel talk.’”

            Thorin looked at Gerontius, his expression almost unreadable except for apprehension in his eyes.

            “However,” Gerontius continued, “if you’ve been half as upset as Bilbo these last few weeks, then I’d say there really is no point.”

            Thorin’s expression turned pained.  “I’m sorry to hear that.  Please know that I wasn’t aware of how much—”

            “Peace,” Gerontius said, holding up his hand.   “I’m sorry that it took two weeks to get you both back together.”

            “What are you two talking about?” Bilbo asked, coming to sit on the arm of Thorin’s chair.

            Thorin, instantly slipped an arm around Bilbo’s waist and Bilbo gently leaned against Thorin’s shoulder.  The actions were natural, like that was how the two men always sat together and it warmed something in Gerontius to see his grandson so relaxed.  “We were talking about how miserable you were.”

            “Grandpa …” Bilbo flushed again.

            “How miserable _were_ you?” Thorin asked, sounding concerned.

            “I was …” Bilbo clearly tossed words around in his head. “… missing you.”

            “That’s not what I asked,” Thorin said.

            Bilbo licked his lips, reluctant to say anything.

            “He mopped about this house like bereft pup,” Gerontius stated.

            Bilbo didn’t contradict his grandfather.

            “Why didn’t you call me?” Thorin asked softly, almost whispered.

            Bilbo sighed.  “I didn’t want to hurt you further.”

            “So you let yourself hurt instead?” Thorin sounded a touch angry.

            “Better get used to that,” Gerontius said.  “That’s how the boy operates.”

            “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Thorin stated firmly, take a drink of his ale.

            Bilbo didn’t argue and the tender smile he bestowed to Thorin said much of his feelings. “Dinner’s ready,” Bilbo said, standing slowly.  “Why don’t we eat.”

            Thorin and Gerontius stood as well, but catching a look in Thorin’s eyes, the elderly man made a quick exit.  “I’ll go wash my hands,” Gerontius said and left the other two alone.

            Bilbo turned to head towards the kitchen but Thorin took his hand to stop him. “If you’re upset, I want to know,” Thorin said, drawing Bilbo close.

            “I’m all right now,” Bilbo said, trying to reassure Thorin.

            “I mean it,” Thorin insisted.  “If you’re unhappy, or angry, or miserable, I want to know … I want to be there for—”

            “I’m very happy,” Bilbo said, and meant it.

            Thorin couldn’t help but smile at that.  “So am I.”

            “And that condition you just set for me,” Bilbo stated, poking Thorin playfully in the chest, “that goes for you as well.  I want you to tell me how you are feeling.”

            “Then let me tell you now,” Thorin said, “that I can’t remember the last time someone made me feel what you make me feel.”

            Bilbo couldn’t help but smile and Thorin, smiling himself, simply rested his forehead to Bilbo’s, both basking in the warmth of the other, letting each know how the other felt without the need for words to convey their emotions.

            Dinner was a success and Bilbo was more than pleased with how Gerontius and Thorin got on.   Thorin was respectful and kind to Gerontius and had no problem helping the elderly man up and down when required; even helping him get settled once dinner was over and Gerontius expressed his desire to simply sit by the fire and nap.

            Of course, there was the one, tiny mishap in the middle of doing dishes. Thorin was telling Bilbo how his cousin had been all up in arms over Bilbo's anonymous letters and thought Bilbo a stalker with killer tendencies. Bilbo laughed it off and said that his best friend would have loved that, because he thought Bilbo was dragging his feet and certainly wouldn’t be surprised at Thorin’s cousin thinking Bilbo mental!  Thorin also laughed, but assured Bilbo that Dwalin had changed his tune.

            That was when Bilbo dropped a mug on the floor.

            “ _What’s your cousin’s name_?!”

            “Dwalin.”

            “Big, burly and bald?  Military man?”

            “Yeah! Do you know _Dwalin_?!”

            Bilbo just shook his head.  “No, but _Ori_ does!”

            “Wait a minute!  You know Dwalin’s boyfriend?!”

            “Who do you think is my _best friend_?!”

            Both Bilbo and Thorin laughed so hard, that they ended up holding their sides. Bilbo thought it funny but Thorin said it was a total cock up and just had to text his sister Dis; for all of Dwalin's snooping and conspiracy theories, he completely missed the Bilbo/Ori connection.  Thorin couldn’t resist letting Dis know so she could take the piss out of Dwalin!

            A few hours later, after Gerontius had gone off to bed, Thorin declared it was time to go.

            “I had a wonderful time,” Thorin said, kissing Bilbo soundly in the foyer.

            “Will you come back again?” Bilbo asked, knowing he didn’t really have to.

            “Whenever I’m welcome.”

            “Tomorrow night then?”

            “As you wish.”

            Bilbo nodded and kissed Thorin, getting a rather mischievous grin on his face. “Of course, if you feel you have had too much to drink tonight …”

            Thorin couldn’t help but be playful back.  “That is a concern.  I guess I could always sleep in the car.”

            Bilbo narrowed his gaze.  “Not exactly where I’d lay you down.”

            Thorin cocked an eyebrow.  “You’d … _lay me,_ would you?”

            Bilbo just shrugged shoulder casually.  “If you needed to stay …”

            “You know,” Thorin said, “now that you bring it up, I _am_ feeling a bit dizzy.”

            “Oh dear,” Bilbo said, reaching out and locking the front door. “I guess I better get you to bed then.”

            “Quickly,” Thorin said as he covered Bilbo’s lips with his own.

            The most wonderful part of Thorin staying, was that Gerontius wasn’t in the least bit surprised to find Thorin at the breakfast table the next morning.

 

 

 


	16. Postlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> POSTLUDE - A postlude is played at the end of a piece

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS HAS NOT BEEN EDITED PROPERLY, BUT I COULDN'T WAIT TO GET IT OUT ... PROPER EDITING WILL BE DONE TOMORROW.

* * *

 

 

            After that first dinner at Bag End with Gerontius, there was the ‘simple’ matter of meeting the friends and families.

            The Gamgees were the first ones to meet Thorin.   Both Hamfast and Belle liked Thorin a great deal and all the littlest members of the family – Daisy, May, Sam and Marigold – all taking to Thorin as if they’d known him their entire lives.  Tiny Marigold in particular loved to be carried about by Thorin and pretending to be so tall.

            A few of Bilbo’s closest relatives dropped over the course of weeks. Drogo and Primula, and their little one, Frodo, were the first.  Prim and Thorin hit it off wonderfully, sharing dirty jokes and generally teasing their more ‘mannerly’ partners.  Drogo, even though the more cautious of the two, warmed up to Thorin by the end of the visit, but Frodo declared his adoration of ‘Mister Thorin’ and sat in the man’s lap calmly, full of wonder, as Thorin brought out his lyre and began to show Frodo how to play it.

            Bilbo’s uncles and aunts from both sides stopped by.  Most were thrilled to have Bilbo back in Hobbiton and thought highly of Thorin, especially as he treated Bilbo so sweetly. Everyone amazed at Thorin’s playing and, in fact, got three of Bilbo’s relatives to request that Thorin tutor their children in the harp.  Also, it warmed many of Bilbo’s cousins to know that Gerontius was well cared for and that the elderly man thought greatly of Thorin as well.

            Sadly, not everyone was on so welcoming.  Gerontius’ oldest son, Bilbo’s Uncle Isengrim and his wife, Dionaea, thought it inappropriate for Bilbo to ‘flaunt’ his sexuality in front of the family, not to mention his elderly grandfather.  Thorin puffed up like an adder, but Bilbo said that if Isengrim didn’t like it, he could _‘take Grandpa home to live with you and Di … if Grandpa wanted to go of course.’_ Gerontius declared loudly that he’d go live with Isengrim when _‘monkeys flew out of his arse’_ but until such time as that happened, Isengrim was to keep his big mouth shut or be cut out of the will!

            Needless to say, no one dared bring up the living arrangements or Bilbo’s budding relationship again in front of Gerontius.

            Next were the best friends.  Ori and Dwalin came down for a weekend visit, staying at Bag End of course. Ori thought the whole thing was a scream and he and Bilbo laughed continuously about it.  Thorin also thought it amusing; not only because Dwalin wasn’t particularly happy with missing the connection, but especially because Dwalin was pouty with Thorin blabbing about it.

            “You just had to go tell Dis, didn’t you?” Dwalin groused, taking a swig of his beer as they all sat outside in the back.

            “Of course,” Thorin said with a shrug, partaking of his own drink, while Bilbo and Ori giggled again.  “She would have found out at some point.”

            Dwalin nodded; Dis found out everything.  “Has she met Bilbo yet?”

            “No,” Thorin said with a sigh.  “Not yet.”

            The following weekend saw Thorin’s sister, her sons, and their mother come to Bag End; sadly his father was in Brussels on business but had already spoken with Thorin on the phone and stated that he was looking forward to meeting Bilbo when he and Thorin came up to London in few weeks.

            “So all-in-all, that concert wasn’t such a bad idea,” Dis said, standing in the backyard with Thorin and their mother, as they watched Fili and Kili run around with Bilbo.

            Thorin shook his head.  “It didn’t have the exact outcome but it helped lead us to where we needed to go, I think.”

            “Do I need to give him ‘the talk?’” Dis said, only half-amused.

            “Absolutely not,” Thorin countered.  “Gerontius was kind enough to skip mine; you can do the same for Bilbo.”

            “I agree,” Fris said.  “Bilbo is nothing but charming,” she said, hugging her son, “and your story is very romantic.” She gave Thorin a warm squeeze, which was returned but she pulled back to look at him.  “Sweetie, have you put on weight?”

            Thorin blushed.  “I might have … put on a pound or two … because of the move and all.”

            Dis smirked but didn’t say anything; her mother did that for her.

            “A happy man shows it in the waistline,” Fris cooed, giving Thorin’s tummy a pat.

            “I told him Bilbo would chub him, if given the chance,” Gerontius said, coming up behind them.  "I warned him."

            Dis and Fris laughed good naturally, but someone else wasn't laughing at all.

            “Who did you warn?  About what?!” Bilbo demanded coming back with Fili and Kili clinging to him like human parasites.

            “That you’d fatten Thorin up,” Dis said with a laugh.

            “Thorin’s not fat!” Bilbo stated.

            “Thank you,” Thorin replied.

            “Not yet, anyway,” Gerontius said under his breath, but loud enough for Dis and Fris to both laugh, and Thorin couldn’t help but smile.

            Bilbo on the other hand wasn’t the least bit amused.

            The whole visit was a success and Dis told Thorin that she not only approved but was extremely happy for him.  Of course, Fili and Kili declaring that ‘Uncle Bilbo’ was the best might have helped her opinion, just as the chocolate fudge brownies and vanilla cupcakes with buttercream frosting might have had something to do with the boys declaration.

            A few weeks later, it was time to meet with Thror. Thorin and Bilbo decided to make a day of it so they were taking the train up early in the morning with the idea of having a very early dinner with Thorin’s family and then coming back that night. Gerontius had been invited as well, of course, and the elderly Took had no hesitation in going.

            Thorin was a little nervous; not only was it the first time he was seeing his grandfather since he got his new position but he knew how Bilbo felt; Bilbo was rather sore at hearing Thror’s past treatment of Thorin and had made comments of giving Thror a firm ‘talking to’ and ‘a bit more than a piece of my mind’ if and when he met the older Durin.

            But Gerontius, warned Bilbo against it.

            “You don’t know all that he did to Thorin!” Bilbo hissed to Gerontius well on the train that morning.  Thorin had gone to the loo and grandfather and grandson took the opportunity to discuss the upcoming gathering.  “Or rather what he failed to do!”

            “You’re right, I don’t know everything,” Gerontius conceded, “but then neither do you.”

            “I know enough,” Bilbo said, fuming at the thought.

            “No you don’t,” Gerontius refuted.  “Because if you did, you’d know it’s best to keep your mouth shut.”

            “How can you say that?!” Bilbo spat out.

            “From my experience,” Gerontius replied gently.  “I can assure you that it will not be in your best interest to get off on the wrong foot with Thorin’s grandfather.”

            “But, he—”

            “A grandfather, I’d like to point out, who is trying to connect with Thorin at this time.”

            Bilbo chewed his lips but didn’t say anything.

            “You start snarling at this man,” Gerontius continued, “and you will not only drive a wedge between yourself and him, but you may well cause a rift between him and Thorin, and perhaps even Thorin and yourself.”

            Bilbo sat back, clearly not having thought that far.

            “Trust me when I say,” Gerontius said kindly, “that these kinds of things work themselves out best when the third party, _such as you are_ , remains neutral.”

            Bilbo wasn’t pleased with that advice but said no more about it; Thorin had come back at that point.

            The afternoon with Thorin’s grandparents was very pleasant and his grandmother adored Bilbo and both grandfather’s hit it off wonderfully. Thorin’s mother was there, welcoming Bilbo with hugs and kisses and greeting Gerontius like they were old friends. Bilbo finally met Thrain who clearly loved his son and was very interested in Bilbo’s work and who he was; Bilbo liked Thrain very much.

            However, Bilbo felt something was odd as the day wore on. Thror had been pleasant, if a slight bit overbearing, when they arrived; not bad or ill-mannered as Bilbo had thought, but just omnipresent in everything.  Thorin’s grandmother, Veda, gave them a tour of the house, but Gerontius, stating being tired from the train ride, stayed behind with Thror in the large front parlour.  Nothing seemed amiss when Bilbo and Thorin returned, but Thror seemed quieter and during tea seemed overtly interested in Thorin’s job, his living arrangements, finances, transportation and just generally concerned if Thorin needed anything at all. It was after tea that Bilbo noticed that Thror and Thorin had slipped away from the gathering and it was a good twenty minutes before they returned.  Something had to have happened because Thorin and Thror stayed close by each other and there was a tense, yet intimate, air about them.

            On the ride home, Bilbo couldn’t resist any longer and asked Thorin, “What happened between you and your grandfather?”

            Thorin was quiet for moment before he answered.  “He apologized … if you can imagine.  He said he was very proud of me and that if he had ever given me the impression that he was ashamed of my choices or me then he was very sorry. He asked my forgiveness.”

            Bilbo was stunned.  It was nothing that he expected.  But he could see that Thorin was touched by what Thror had said and Bilbo was grateful for that. “I’m glad then that you have … come to an understanding.”

            Thorin nodded and said, smiling, “So am I.”  He breathed a sigh before continuing.  “He’s not a bad person, Bilbo.  I just think we both went on for so long, being at odds, that it became a habit and forgot how to connect with each other.”

            Thorin leaned back and within minutes was dozing.  It was about that time that something clicked in Bilbo’s mind.

            “Grandpa,” Bilbo said softly.

            Gerontius looked up from the book he was reading and waited for Bilbo to continue.

            “Did you say anything to Thorin’s grandfather?”

            “I said a great many things,” Gerontius said with a laugh. “Was I not with you all day? We all talked and—”

            “That’s not what I meant,” Bilbo said pointedly.  “You were alone with Thror shortly after we arrived. What did you talk about?”

            Gerontius didn’t lower his gaze but slowly closed his book. “We talked about Hobbiton and the countryside and things like that.”

            “That’s it?” Bilbo asked, doubt coloring his words.

            Gerontius blinked only once and got a tiny smirk on his face. “We might have talked about the nature of grandsons and how words and deeds can cause more hurt than we think.”

            Bilbo looked like he wanted to scream.  “In other words, you had the talk you told me not to have with the man.”          

            Gerontius smiled and nodded, not even trying to lie about it.

            “After the advice you gave me,” Bilbo said quietly, “Why did you then go and—”

            “Because it’s important that Thror like you,” Gerontius said seriously. “He doesn’t have to like me. Besides, he would have accepted what had to be said from another grandfather, someone close to his age … but he wouldn’t have even listened to someone he would have considered an upstart young man.”

            Gerontius was correct.

            Bilbo laid his head against Thorin’s shoulder and dozed off. Gerontius went back to his book but realized suddenly that Thorin was not asleep and was looking at him. There were not words spoken, but the small smile on Thorin’s face told Gerontius all he needed to know; Thorin didn’t have to say thank you for something Gerontius was pleased to have done.

            It was a several weeks later that the really big event happened.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Gerontius was confused.  “What do you mean, _‘move in?’_ ”

            Bilbo and Thorin exchanged a quick look before Bilbo said; “Thorin and I have discussed the idea of him living here … in Bag End … with us.”

            “We wanted to make sure you were comfortable with the idea,” Thorin added.

            Gerontius was very confused.  “But he already lives here.”

            Now Bilbo was confused.  “No, Grandpa … Thorin lives at the school.  Remember?”

            “Oh really?” Gerontius said, with smirk.  “Would you care to explain then why we have a full size harp in the front parlour?”

            “That was a gift from Thorin’s grandparents, and …” Bilbo stammered for a reason, “… and he … he needed a place to store it; his room at the school is too small.”

            “Thorin’s room must be the size of a pantry then,” Gerontius said dryly, “with a closet to match; half his wardrobe is upstairs in the second bedroom.” Thorin shifted in his seat while Bilbo, clearly, struggled to come up with an argument.  Gerontius rolled his eyes; he loved his grandson dearly, but Bilbo was the original _Queen of Denial_. “And must I point out that there's not been a night he _hasn’t_ stayed here in the last three months!”

            Gerontius shook his head at the matching astonished looks on Bilbo and Thorin.

            “That’s … not … necessarily true,” Bilbo finally got out.

            “Oh, right,” Gerontius said in mock seriousness, “there were those three days last month when Thorin wasn’t well and he stayed away so as not to make you sick.”

            “You’ve, uhm …” Thorin cleared his throat.  “You’ve noticed when I’ve stayed?”

            “Are you two under the delusion,” Gerontius answered, “that because I go to bed early and Thorin tiptoes around and leaves before I get up, that I’m clueless of your _‘sleep overs?’_ ” The startled look exchanged between Bilbo and Thorin told Gerontius that he had hit the nail on the head. “You’re not that quiet, you know.”

            “My apologies,” Thorin said.  “I’ve tried not to wake either you or Bilbo as I get ready in the morning.”

            “I don’t mean just you or that,” Gerontius said honestly, starting to enjoy himself, and waited for them to relax before dropping his bomb. “I mean …  you _both_ have quite the set of lungs.”

            Thorin choked on his coffee and Bilbo, now a deep pink color, immediately began to pound on Thorin’s back.

            Gerontius just kept eating.

            “You’ve heard us?!” Thorin croaked out when he could finally breath.

            “I’m hard of hearing,” Gerontius replied, “not deaf.”

            “Oh my God,” Bilbo whispered loudly.

            “I’m surprised the Gamgees haven’t complained about the noise,” Gerontius said casually.  “Their on your side of the house after all.”

            “Ah, Christ,” Thorin said quietly, shaking his head.

            Bilbo leaned down and whispered in Thorin’s ear, “Perhaps we need to work on being quieter?”

            Thorin wasn’t so sure about that.  “Yeah, good luck.”

            Gerontius didn’t know what the problem was.  Sure, he knew why they were asking him, he wasn’t an idiot, but really, hadn’t all this been decided, slowly, unstated, over the last few months?

            “So …” Bilbo said softly, “You have no objections, Grandpa?”

            Gerontius fought down his sarcasm.  “If I’d any issue with it, don’t you think I would have said something before now?”

            Thorin smiled.  “I guess he has us there.”

            Bilbo nodded in agreement.

            “Besides,” Gerontius continued, talking around a bit of ham, “it’s obvious that you two are in love.”

            Thorin snorted his coffee this time and Bilbo turned the color of his prized tomatoes; Gerontius didn’t bother to hide his eye-roll.

            “Grandpa!” Bilbo hissed, slapping Thorin on the back.  “That’s not a word that one just … just banters about!”

            “Oh, please,” Gerontius said.  “If you two don’t see that, then you are the only two who don’t! Hell, even young Sam and his sisters next door see it!”

            “What?!” Thorin gaped and Bilbo looked to the heavens for intervention.

            “I was outside last week,” Gerontius explained, “when Sam, Daisy and little Marigold were playing and Sam asked me if _‘Mister Bilbo and Mister Thorin were gonna get married.’_ ”

            “He did not!” Bilbo stated.

            Gerontius nodded.  “Daisy thought you two already were and Marigold wondered if you’d let them be flower-girls.”

            “Bleeding Christ,” Thorin said, hanging his head.

            “Grandpa,” Bilbo said taking a deep breath.  “You don’t—”

            “Are you forgetting how biology works?” Gerontius snarked. “Because at ninety-eight years old, I can assure you I wasn’t born yesterday.”  Thorin and Bilbo exchanged another quick look before Gerontius moved on. “In my day, you met someone, you fell in love, _you told them_ , and then you got married!   Now days, it’s met someone, fret about for several months, dance around the subject and all the while hope someone makes the first move!  What exactly are you two waiting for; an invitation from the other one?”

            Gerontius felt he’d said his piece and returned to his breakfast, which was it’s usual delicious self.

            Thorin glanced at his watch before standing up.  “I’ve got to get going.”  Although a Saturday, Thorin was going in to give one of his private students extra lessons.  “I’ll be back by lunch.”

            “Drive safe,” Bilbo said, gathering up used plates from the table as Thorin gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

            Thorin turned to go but stilled for a moment.  Standing straighter, he turned back, cupped Bilbo’s face and said, “Someone has to be first.”  Thorin then kissed Bilbo sounded on the lips, pulled back and whispered loudly, “I love you.”

            Bilbo just stood there, gaping, as Thorin left, while Gerontius hummed to himself in satisfaction; he’d done his good deed for the day.

 

\-----ooooo-----

 

            Christmas time was Gerontius’ favorite time of the year!  When else could he act like a kid and totally get away with it? All right, so he acted like a kid all year round, so it wasn’t really unusual.  Christmas was still his favorite time of year.

            Naturally, Bilbo and Thorin threw a huge party on Christmas Eve day. Thorin’s family were there, including his Uncle Fundin and his wife, and Dwalin and Ori; Gerontius was very pleased to see Ori, his partner in all things annoying to Bilbo! The Baggins, Tooks and Brandybucks all stopped by throughout the day, but Drogo, Prim and Frodo were there most of it, with promises to return Christmas day.  Even Gandalf was invited to attend; which he did!

            Fili and Kili, were incredibly taken with Frodo; the two preteens believed it their mission to play with, tickle, snuggle, cuddle and all around entertain the little seven year old.   By the late afternoon the three boys were discovered, in a cuddle pile, sound asleep in the middle of Thorin and Bilbo’s huge bed.  Many photos were taken for future blackmail and embarrassment.

            Bilbo announced, per Baggins tradition and to the disappointment of the three boys, that gifts were to be saved until Christmas Day, but that Thorin had a surprise for everyone.  Retrieving a box hidden by the tree, Thorin handed out a few small gifts that appeared to be CDs. Sure enough, when opened, it was a CD of Thorin performing Christmas music on the harp.

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Fris said thrilled.  “How lovely!”

            “Where did you record these?” Dis asked.

            “The old ballroom at the school,” Thorin replied.  “The acoustics are very good and the Audio Technology teacher did all the mixing.”

            “You have an Audio Technology teacher at that school?” Thror asked, clearly amazed.

            Thorin nodded.  “Elrond believes that even those gifted in electronic music and audio production should be given a chance.”

            “Can we listen to these now?”  Veda asked.

            “Actually,” Thorin said with a blush, “You’ve been listening to it most of the afternoon.”

            “This has been you?” Gandalf asked quietly, pointing to the sound system that had been playing in the background all day.

            “It has,” Bilbo said with much satisfaction.  “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?!”

            “Very much so,” Gandalf said.

            “You are truly gifted, son,” Thrain said.

            “Thanks, dad,” Thorin said; a pale pink blush on his cheeks. “But I’m not the only one gifted in this house.”

            “Oh, no,” Bilbo groaned and Thorin just laughed.  “Don’t do this to me.”         

            “Do what?”  Dis demanded, smiling. She loved when someone was on the spot!

            “Bilbo got sick of his all his cousins asking about how we met,” Thorin said, clearly enjoying himself.  “ So he wrote out a story for them to read.”

            “Are you kidding?!”  Dis was beside herself.  “I want to read it!”

            “So do I,” Fris said.

            “Me too!” Primula stated.

            “Oh, no,” Bilbo said, turning red.  “It’s silly, honestly.  It was just something silly I did to shut them up.”

            “It’s brilliant,”  Thorin said, producing a few copies out what seemed like thin air.

            “Don’t you dare!” Bilbo shouted, trying to grab them back but Thorin held them high; much to high for Bilbo to jump, then proceeded to hand the copies to his sister and Primula.

            “ _’A Little Night Music,’_ ” Dis said, reading the title.  “ _‘A Romantic Comedy of Errors!’_ Oh my God, it already sounds good!”

            “I’m going to kill you,” Bilbo growled out to Thorin, but the threat held no heat and Thorin just smiled.

            “Then let me give you your gift before I’m dead,” Thorin said, going over to the tree and grabbing a small gift.

            “Thorin …” Bilbo said, giving his love a raised eyebrow. “No gifts until tomorrow.” But Bilbo took the gift from Thorin’s hand quite quickly.

            “This is just a token really,” Thorin said gently, watching Bilbo rip the paper.

            Bilbo gave a little gasp.

            “What is it?!” Primula asked looking up from her copy of Bilbo’s story.

            “Music,” Bilbo said, softly.  “My music.”

            When everyone looked confused, Thorin explained.  “I recorded a CD of all the music I played for Bilbo when we were still only initials to each other.”

            The ‘Ah’s’ from everyone was too much.

            “I have to check on dinner,” Bilbo said, his voice thick with emotion, as he dashed off to the kitchen.

            Gerontius had to hand it to Thorin, he knew just how to touch Bilbo’s heart.

            Dinner was wonderful and they played a few games afterwards but most everyone retired early, worn out from a day of merriment and eager to rest before the big day started in the morning.  However, while everyone was making their way to quest rooms, Gerontius was the only one to notice Gandalf slipping a few things in his pocket.

            “Playing The Grinch?” Gerontius asked, sneaking up behind his old friend. “Are you sneaking off with Christmas gifts?”

            Gandalf only turned around, smiling, and pulled out a copy of Thorin’s CD and a copy of Bilbo’s story.  “These are too good to be forgotten.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I once told Bilbo I had numerous connections.”

            “That’s one way of putting it,” Gerontius said dryly.  “But that doesn’t answer my question.”

            “Yes it does,” Gandalf insisted.  “I have connections in both the recording industry and the publishing one.   These two items need to be seen by professionals … and agents.” Gandalf gave Gerontius a wink, placed the two items back in his pocket and left in search of his own place to sleep.

            Gerontius should have stopped him.  At least that is what he told himself.  But the idea of Thorin getting a recording deal and Bilbo receiving a book contract, outweighed any objection that Gerontius could think of.   

            Gerontius went to his own room and laid down; Christmas was only a few hours away now and he had a funny feeling.  Sure enough, something woke him just ten minutes after midnight and he thought he knew what it was; it was after midnight so it was technically Christmas – gifts could be given now.

            Slipping on his dressing gown and grabbing his cane, he silently left his room and walked towards the living room.  The fire was still burning in the hearth.

            As he got nearer, Gerontius was pleased to find he was correct. Soft, lyrical music flowed on the air and when he peeked around the corner, he saw Thorin, sitting on the floor, in his sleep clothes, playing a slow rendition of _‘In Praise of Christmas’_ ; more commonly known as ‘ _To Drive the Cold Winter Away.’_   Bilbo sat behind Thorin, leaning sideways against Thorin’s back; one hand on the floor to steady himself and the other pressed against Thorin’s shoulder.  Something on Bilbo’s hand caught the light and in the same moment, Gerontius noticed the small velvet box, open amid it’s now torn wrappings, empty of the ring that now shone on Bilbo’s finger.

            Gerontius smiled to himself; Thorin did indeed know just how to touch Bilbo’s heart.

 

 

_**FIN** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU ALL FOR READING! I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE FIC!


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